Born

It's summer of nothing. Summer of wake up at noon and do all forms of lying until two o'clock the next day when you're tired. Right, tired. Summer of dream about millipedes biting your neck, and by the way what the fuck was that, and funny thing was I didn't even want to wake up from it. I wanted to see what happened. Where it went. Where fucking millipedes biting my fucking neck running down staircases in japanese airports fucking went. Summer of nothing. Summer of should. Family of should. And I'm not even Hal Incandenza. And I know I run this beat every time I'm reading a new book, but honestly, I'm not even smoking pot or anything. I feel strongly, maybe not very strongly, but strongly enough that if I were smoking pot, or breaking some laws, or abusing this or that organ inside my body, I wouldn't even be feeling this shitty about this summer of nothing. That's embarrassing, right, but come on.

There might be other options. Like Jane Austen romantic period options. Looking at nature. Somehow that being enough. Like the Science channel.

The problem is that I can't do shit out of luck, stupid, spoiled brat well. I can't even do bored teenager well. My bored teenager is like, it's like your grandmother. It's like I have an oxygen tank and a gimp knee and I can't remember how to put on a bra or pick up my clothes off the bathroom floor and the thing that gets me off the most is just thinking about the sheer possibility of getting off my ass and doing something, anything. And days just go by. They just go the fuck by. I mean, what's that? What the fuck is that. But this is it. This is it. I know---I have been saying this to myself, standing in the bathroom mirror, I have been saying it---and I've known, the way you always just fucking know, that this is it. This is it for the rest of forever. And oh it really seems like forever.

And I have so much shit. I came home from school with two bags full of clothes and I couldn't put them anywhere. What's that? How does such a nothing master accumulate so much shit and not even manage to be doing anything even halfway dirty with her time? It's unheard of. It's depressing. If I were actually doing something dirty I would have something to hold on to, you know. But whatever. I'm not depressed but it's depressing. To me. Not to anyone else. It's not something other people could even begin to find depressing, what with the blame game etc., but to me it is depressing. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't rather be back at the U of C. No way. Not yet.

Also, no offense, but I hate the Science channel. No, I hate 95% of the programming on the Science channel. Of HD channels it is bested, that is in terms of undesirability, only by the SciFi channel, which by the way is now called SyFy, because what the fuck. I sense that I'm supposed to like the Science channel, maybe even love the Science channel, by the way of some weird social cue or something having to do with the ether, and it only makes this strange clot of emotions even worse. I think mostly that it just intimidates me. Can one both like science and dislike the Science channel? Must we all be like that short asian guy with long graying weird-hair who is excited about everything? Etc., etc., etc. ...

I could write as fast as I can eat

I'm not reading Ulysses. Instead, I'm... not reading Ulysses. It's not that it bores me. It's that maybe the act of reading bores me. I'm a sentimentalist, you know, what's that telegram, the sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done.

Um... yes. My tummy hurts. I am sleepy. That is all.

Aaaaaaauuuuuggghhhhh

Today was no-coat weather. Everyone was outside. There was a great migration. I was outside around noon-thirty and I saw it--people in the streets. They really were everywhere. I walked to Nichols park, which is where the parakeets were on Friday. I felt greatly emancipated from all things, but it was really only a prideful thing like that one time with the bus, and I was obstinately fighting my guts the whole time. I brought Durkheim with me, and I took my shoes off when I sat on a bench to read it because they were very wet from when I kept stepping in puddles. I could not keep my head straight after ten pages so I stood up to walk around the park. Once I was on the paved path there was this enormous gulf of water between myself and a swing set and I had to lean on a pole to figure out how to get around it. It was tedious but I did not feel too stupid. We were always going to parks and playgrounds back home, but I did not feel nostalgic. I didn't even remark that at the time, this is just an embellishment in hindsight. I could not fight myself to swing on the swings, either, which was followed by this fatalistic attitude that I would not turn back once I turned away from it, so I just turned away from it. There were forces acting on me, and goddamn it I could feel them. I listened to Patrick Wolf on the way over and Pearl Jam on the way back and it didn't quite feel right. It was incongruous music, but I thought I would give it a try anyway.

Anyhow, I really am fighting my guts. They are pulling me in all directions.

I am doing jackshit today. It was a mediocre day.

I just want to screw around always. It is so much better that way, you know? I am actually having a good time right now, despite not having any internship goo going on in my summer. But for now I would be happy enough not thinking about it. It is all very depressing, that stuff.

There are a lot of mundane things I never thought I'd do. I'm trying new shampoo, so it's the first day of the rest of my life.

There needs to be more creativity in putting yourself down, in raising yourself up, and in making yourself look crazy. It's all, autonomous beings, writing in a personally compelling way, writing the same shit as everyone else.

A pipe broke yesterday and feces went everywhere, poured all over this grieving family who was staying in a suite on the second floor, caved the ceiling in over our dining hall table.

I lost my hat yesterday in a fit of paper. I had finally come to terms with wearing a hat, too. Additionally going hatless is now devastating. Somehow I can look backwards and do a bit of hand-waving and say that I always knew it would be a bad day for that hat.

Blarg blarg blarg

http://nyssa-who.com/

It's an old picture, but what the hell

I am horrible. It's just like the thing with the dog. My whole life is the thing with the dog. It's all I am: the thing with the dog. You say, Nyssa, tell me about yourself, and I'll fucking tell you about the thing with the dog, because that's all I am, the fucking thing with the fucking dog. Who am I to talk. You're wasting your life? You're not wasting your life. I'll tell you who's wasting her fucking life.

Half-Life is a little too scary to play alone right now. But I do not ever want to sleep on the day I get back home from being somewhere. I think it is because I do not want to be sad. Feel like a noodle for a while; it will pass. I wriggle, and I want to sigh. One has to admit it ought to be uncanny to wake up in Chicago next to someone but to sleep in Orlando alone. I do not want to talk about sleep anymore because it is too pointless. It is a long time. Maybe if I were raised on Mars, it would seem different. Today there was one of those girls in the airport. She was a small girl with lacquered nails, light skin, streaked blonde hair, and a face like a pug. Most of the time they have faces like that. Somehow it fits. I decided that I find this kind of person fascinating.

Today I made a monkey out of socks.

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I am home in Florida, a little weepy but otherwise completely rational. The short and sweet of it is that I am going to miss Rafa. I do not want to sleep, so I am sitting out by the television in this familiar unfamiliar living room with a laptop watching that show about brides on television. Being home is not weird-feeling at all, which only makes it weirder. I want to make a sock monkey! (Maybe I will)