elegantwaste's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- nobody ever said I was suave Crying steadily for 20 minutes makes my head hurt, yo.
So, I'm pretty depressed, and I don't mean, 'oh dear my life sucks' depressed, which it could be said I am at any given time. But yeah, as in, my body is turning against me and making me nuts, again. Prone to burst into tears at any time over the smallest things, equally making me giddy and hyper over the smallest things, then the rest of the time, just drowning in the yellow haze that is melancholy. My mom, though - she makes me cry so often. There doesn't even have to be a reason. For this reason, she thinks I'm a nutcase. I don't see her very often, four or five times a year, maybe, and every time, there's some night where we talk and I cry. Phone calls are a little better odds, but today, when I phoned to thank her for the windchimes she sent me, I just started and didn't stop the whole time. Talking on the phone while pretending I'm not crying is quite the skill, and one I don't have, cause my voice gets shaky and I sniffle. But I have no idea what I'm doing in September - I don't have any of my classes, and if I don't get those, there's no point in even going. And I realllly don't want to. But I'm sure once I get into it, I'd be okay. I like school, but. It's been so long, in it. [I need to do laundry and all the machines are full and I hate my building.] Then again, I don't want to spend a year working at Starbucks and doing nothing else, especially in a time like now, when I can't write, when I have nothing when I sit down to do it. I'm hoping the three-day novel writing contest will help. Because when I have a deadline, I'm usually okay. Three days. I have no idea what I'm going to write about, though I'm collecting a list of interesting things in my head. Maybe a plot will germinate out of those; maybe I'll have no plot. I just want to write, and hopefully I'll be able to. But, next year. I don't want to take a year off, really, not if I have to stay here. If I left, if I went somewhere, maybe I'd be cool. But I'm tied down to this apartment, to all this stuff, to people. Not so much to people. Whatever. This makes me sound more worried than I am, really. But I hate, I hate hate hate, not knowing what I'm doing. I just hate not knowing anything. I hate presents and surprises for the same reason. This is why I let the doctor cut me open five times just so he could tell me that, yes, I did in fact have this weird non-life-threatening cancer, but he doesn't want to do anything about it. See, now, at least, I know. What I am concerned about is the trend of bursting into tears when anyone asks me how I am. Cause that's not too, um, healthy or good or suave. 8:23 p.m. - 2002-08-12 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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