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"That was a sad movie."I sighed as the credits began to move up the screen.
"Yeah, kind of,"he replied, "but it wasn't sad so much as, I don't know, touching.-
"I know. It just made me sad. I mean, I want that.-
"You want to die like that?-
"Well, yes, but I mean I want
. That love. I want that all-consuming, desperate, passionate kind of love. Why don't we have that?-
His smile was that of tenderness mixed with frustration. We looked at each for a moment, with some kind of longing behind our eyes.
Maybe it was the heels. Never in my life have I owned (or been able to walk in) such glamorous heels. They're a good 3 inches, deep purple, and pointy-toed. Paired with my slinky black dress and sans panties, I felt concurrently bold and vulnerable. This, submerged in late-night Ybor, was extraordinarily conducive to intimacy. After spending the better part of two hours enveloped in cigar smoke and sipping cafÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â© con leche, we stopped at a secluded bench and talked for long time. Honesty and intimacy are difficult to combine.
I can't remember the last time we kissed so perfectly.
After getting our membership card, we browsed the store. Every few feet, something new would amaze us.
"Holy mother of god, look how cheap razors are!"
"Look at all that cat food! For only ten dollars!"
"I am going to orgasm right here in Costco. Do you know what I could bake with all this flour?"
We filled the cart and headed for the register, where the total was just under $300. As I handed over my Mastercard, the lady said, "Sorry, we only take checks or American Express."
Did you hear the profanity cacophony tonight?
Yeah, that was me.
It's not fair.
"We hate men,"the weigh-in lady laughed at our meeting tonight, "because they
lose weight faster than we do!-
I wasn't upset, but I was irritated with myself. Kyle had stopped eating fast food and drinking soda, so of
he lost 7 pounds in two weeks. In the same time, I gained one. I don't drink soda or eat fast food, so it's no surprise I haven't lost weight. But I shouldn't be gaining! We have rewards for ourselves, and clearly it's going to take longer to acquire mine.
This week is gonna be heavy-duty.
I got things accomplished today.
I know, I can't believe it myself.
Some of the girls from QT invited me to lunch, and when I told them I had an appointment with Crawley, they waited for me! I now have a lunch date every Tuesday and Thursday.
My appointment was very productive, and I aced my last religion test. I was also nominated for secretary of DNA next semester at tonight's meeting. I'm so proud of myself! Kyle and I rode our bikes 4 miles tonight, on top of the four miles I rode between classes.
Three cheers for Jenny!
I love to sleep, but I usually get less than six hours a night.
I own somewhere in the vicinity of one hundred "rubber"duckies.
I use sea sponge tampons (I know you all wanted to know that).
The Disney gal I am most like is Tinkerbell.
I talk to myself out loud, and get caught doing it all the time.
My artistic "abilities"include painting, ceramics, and little else.
I own a king-sized bed and use every inch of it.
I spend more time surfing the web than doing homework.
I'm always cold, and drive without AC- in Florida.
My family, in ditties:
My grandparents had three kids- my aunt, the oldest, who is a wealthy bitch; my uncle, the middle, who's a kind-hearted redneck; and my dad, the baby, who was the smartest and most normal. My aunt had two daughters before her then-husband left them. One of her daughters is an emotionally dead albeit very funny and intelligent person; the other is an emotionally challenged lesbian. My uncle adopted his second wife's son, who turned out to be quite the problem child. His wife, however, is wonderful. My parents had slightly neurotic but mostly normal me, only.
One by one, the survivors walked to their place on the starting line. A little girl no older than four ran, tripping over her adult-sized survivor tee-shirt, to the front of the line. She was a beautiful child, and looked very exited that her name had been called. I almost cried. I bit back the bitterness that dad's candle said "In Memory"and not "In Honor"and let myself have a good time.
And I did. I was so giddily tired by the end of the night that I actually hauled my (full-size) spare tire in for the scavenger hunt.
Physical exhaustion is a much simpler thing with which to deal than mental exhaustion. By the time Relay was over and I had been awake for over 24 hours, I was, without a doubt, physically exhausted. I walked and danced and played all night; when I finally got home, I almost cried at the sight of my bed. My bad knee was killing me, so I took a long, hot shower to soothe it, put on some lavender lotion to calm me, and slept. I slept for 24 hours. I woke up refreshed, unlike waking from mental exhaustion still exhausted.
We held the first fundraiser for DNA today, and it royally sucked. Well, that depends on who you ask, too. I personally think that spending 7 hours at a gas station (holding signs, getting honked at, washing 5 cars at once and then none for an hour) and making under 200 dollars sucks. Everyone else thought it was fanfuckingtastic. I've never been involved in a new club, and I've never worked so hard to get something off it's feet. I feel good, though, being involved for once. And I'm befriending all the Muslim girls, which provides me with endless amusement.
I've never thought of myself as a perfectionist, but I'm beginning to wonder if that's where the procrastination starts. Consider the Florida Writes essays I had to do in 10th grade. I loved the topic of our first practice assignment- if you could only save three photos, which ones would you choose and why. I ate it up, and so did Ms. Schroeder. She read it to the class and gave me a perfect score.
I didn't do the second assignment. I accepted a zero instead of risking an imperfect. When did I decide that horrible was better than mediocre?
I hate the end of every semester. By the end, I've convinced myself that I'll fuck up like I always do, that I'm fucking up my whole life. If I'm not doing everything perfectly, then I figure I may as well do everything badly. Anything, really, but mediocre. I've heard it my whole life- I am the "good"grandkid, daughter of parents with shining work ethic. The smart one, the polite one, the one with all that potential. I really ought to have discovered the cure for cancer by now to avenge my father's death.
Instead, I'm fat, irritable, mediocre.
It's a dance for me. Concurrently sensual and precise, I can feel the stress melt off as I commence. I use the same system even when I'm trying something new. I read the entire recipe first, then lay out my ingredients. I measure out everything and line it up in the order it will be used. I put things away and clean things as I go; there is never a mess, baking should not be disheveled. I taste as I go along, because a little germ contamination is worth it when the consistency of the crÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¨me brÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â»lÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â©e custard is perfect.
We had a party for Dr. Crawley today because she got the official professorship. We all knew that she would get the position because she is by far the most dynamic professor in competition for it. The party was fun; I'm finally starting to feel like I fit in a little in the women's studies posse. Naturally, most of them are graduating next semester. But it's nice to have people to eat with twice a week, and, for that matter, people for whom to bake. My red velvet cake went over splendidly, and hanging out with profs always gains points.
Steak'n'Shake is a haven for insomniacs, and Kyle and I were in need of late-night sustenance. We saw an unusual number of cops in the shadows along the road, and it was quickly apparent why when we entered the restaurant. A sea of big hair, sweat-ruined make-up, and taffeta surrounded us. Prom Night. We called the sheriff when four girls behind us spiked their OJ with liquor purloined from their parent's liquor cabinets. I felt guilty, but not for long. We waited until the girls left, about an hour, but the cops never came.
I hope they got home ok.
Our Ybor dates have been like heaven the last few weeks; they were something we both looked forward to all week. It's like we morph into Mr. and Mrs. Perfect every Saturday night as dress up and get ready. He holds doors for me, pulls out chairs. We dine someplace new every week, then sit for hours in front of King Corona smoking cigars and downing cafÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â©s con leche. We'll walk for blocks talking, even when I'm in stilettos.
I should have known that it couldn't last forever. Once we realized how great it was, it stopped being so great.
It's an invigorating feeling to finally feel as though I've accomplished something. We started Weight Watchers 5 weeks ago, and I have yet to lose any weight. The program we've been doing is called the core food plan, which basically allows you to eat less-than-limited portions of the core foods. The problem was that we didn't like any of them, so we cheated. A lot. But we started the point system today, and I feel pretty good about it.
I got a lot of chores done today, and that always leaves me feeling accomplished. If only I'd finish my homework...
I didn't expect it to hurt this much. Truthfully, I figured that I'd be better at following the plan, and that we'd lose weight at about the same rate (since men tend to lose more quickly). Today was our fifth meeting, and I have yet to not gain, let alone lose, weight. He hit 10 pounds today.
We're starting a different program this week because the one we were doing just wasn't working. He'd stopped drinking soda and eating fast food, which accounted for most of his weight loss. I want to catch up. It's hard being the un-success story.
The thing that I love about theory is that you are asked to be original, to be argumentative, to form your own unique ideas. The thing I hate about theory is that you are asked to be original, to be argumentative, to form your own unique ideas. Those who know me well might not believe that I could have a hard time coming up with crazy ideas and arguing them to the death, but after a semester of fighting though articles by people crazier and more argumentative than myself, I'm running on empty. My worst nightmare come true: uninspired writing
There are things I want to do with my life that wouldn't interest many people. I want to join the peace corps as a nurse and educator; I'd go to Africa to help end female genital mutilation, and Mexico to develop literacy programs for women and children working in maquiladoras. I would like to teach real, scientifically modeled sex-ed to inner city and rural teens in the US. If I had the time, money, and brain power, I would be a lawyer for the ACLU and a doctor for Doctors Without Borders. I have a fire, it just needs direction.
The thing is, we can't lose him too. It would probably kill Meme. I lost my dad too young; I still need a man who loves me like a daughter and can give me that kind of advice and care. Our whole family can't lose him because ironically enough, he's our glue right now. Without him, we might all fall apart.
My Uncle Steve is having heart surgery next week. My Steve, who promised to walk me down the aisle because my dad wouldn't have wanted anyone else to take his place. My Steve. Our Steve. We can't lose him.
Drilled into my head are a few phrases by which I will always abide. Everything happens for a reason, the serenity prayer, what goes around comes around, and choose you battles come to mind. My mom spend my entire childhood enforcing them. I find myself in a predicament, however, about choosing my battles with Kyle. I've never met anyone who wasn't schooled in basic P's and Q's, and it bothers me intensely when he doesn't say "Thank you"or "excuse me." Is that a battle worth my effort, or should I leave it with his dirty socks on the floor?
Where did your mind wander during the hours when she slept peacefully and you tossed and turned, hoping for one solid hour? Where did your thoughts take you? Were you able to keep your mind blank in the darkness, or did thoughts crowd your head?
I had a good cry tonight, and Kyle just held me because he didn't understand what in that movie made me miss you so painfully. As his weight became heavy on my arm and his breathing shallowed, I thought of you. How did you spend your long, tormented hours of insomnia after she fell asleep?
I'm having a difficult time coming up with ideas for my autoethnography. Ethnography is a newer form of writing, the premise of which is applying theory to real life. Autoethnography is kind of the opposite of autobiography- bios are made to show people how extraordinary your life is, ethnos are made to show how ordinary your life is. Like, look at my stories, I bet you can relate to them, and here's how the theory applies. My theme is going to be about split personalities- my desire to live seemingly opposite lives and where it comes from. Wish me luck.
Binge eaters eat unusually large amounts of food quickly and feel completely out of control as they do it. They binge not just from time to time, but fairly regularly. Binge eaters try to hide their binges from others.
That's one reason I joined weight watchers. I wasn't there yet; I wasn't stuffing my face every day or making any decisive attempts to hide how much I was eating. But I was getting there. I'd get stressed, and I grab a bag of Oreos and a box of Cheez-Its and they'd be gone in a day.
It's getting better.
Mom thinks that I hide my pain. She said that she knows how much losing daddy affected me, and that maybe it affected me more than I realized. It came up because I was explaining being pissed off at myself for not caring enough about anything. She thinks I have too much on my shoulders, but I know plenty of people that have way more than I do. I finally grew up and realized that I needed to be responsible for my own shit. My dad never would've blamed his problems on someone else, dead or not. Neither will I.
There's something calming and familiar about ethnic restaurants for my mom and me. Maybe it's because we've made an effort since before I can remember to eat someplace new every chance we could, and we've always had good conversations on our culinary adventures.
We ate at Jasmine's tonight; we've been here once but I was craving Thai coconut curry like nobody's business. The conversation revolved around my ideas about the split personality thing, and she asked me why I was so convinced that I couldn't merge my opposite lives.
That, of course, would be too easy. I prefer emotional turmoil.
Once the thought crossed my mind, I couldn't make it go away. It's a stupid idea, really, for someone with a scholastic history like mine. I'd considered a biomedical sciences major if I didn't get into nursing school because hey, one can never have too many bachelor degrees. Today, however, I realized how just how intimately involved I'd become with women's studies. It struck me that I could have the best of both worlds- a BS in biomedical sciences, and a BA in women's studies (complete with a minor in chemistry, of course).
What the bloody hell am I thinking?
Today, ladies and gentlemen, was my last Anatomy and Physiology lab practical EVER. EVER, MOTHERFUCKERS. All I have left is the last lecture exam, a make-up lecture exam, a psych final, a religion final, and my autoethnography. Not much in the grand scheme of things, but enough to make me very, very sleepy. I slept all day today. I was so enthralled to be done with one more science that my body shit out on me. My brain, too, apparently. This weekend is going to suck, because I have major writer's block. I am counting the days until nursing school.
I called her back because she was laughing and clearly drunk in the message. When she answered, she was sobbing. I made out that she missed daddy, she'd graduated and he never knew, she was lonely, she was depressed...
She was drunk. Drunk and at Otie's, of course. She told me she loved me about 20 times before hanging up. I stayed cool until I closed the phone, then I lost it.
I AM NOT THE ADULT. I AM THE GODDAMNED KID.
I called Joy to drive her home.
You think I don't express my pain?
This is why, mom.
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