I can't get no. Na na na.
Aug. 17th, 2005 12:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kleenexwomanA famous saying that was brought to my attention today: "Curiosity killed the cat." The lesser-known second part to this is "Satisfaction brought him back." While I doubt the idea that any animal at all could be revived just by playing a Rolling Stones song at it, we do know that it wasn't curiosity that killed the cat, it was three tots who hate their relatives. And then they chopped him up and put him in an apple pie, according to the song. Eeeew. However, we also know that re-agent can bring a cat back, at least for a while, even if it can't tango. Cats don't dance anyway, they just lie around and purr. Honestly, have you ever seen a cat dance? They can't even do the polka. I can do the polka. Every Polish girl should know how to polka. Every Jewish girl should know how to do the hora. I bet you I can teach a cat to polka. I want a cat. I want a Pac-Man toad. I will name it Herbert and feed it spiders. Toads are not for licking. They are for loving.
That was the most inane stream-of-consciousness thing I've ever written in my life. It's because I'm fucking nervous for college. I'm so nervous that I have a stomachache and I was crying today, and it's more than a week before I go to college. I'm going to kill myself with nervousness before I ever get up there. I wasn't this nervous even my first year. I don't know why I'm this nervous now.
Dad just took me shopping for school supplies, and I freaked out because Staples didn't have the right kind of notebook (Mead spiral-bound, college-ruled, single-subject, 100 pages, different colors so I can tell my different subjects apart). I think I'm freaking out over little things like that because I think that if I obsessively organize the little things in my life, the big things will turn out OK. As above, so below.
He also took me to Salvation Army, which he said made him nervous because he didn't like the idea of buying other people's clothing. I took a long time picking out even one shirt. I have dull but exacting standards for my shirts, as I do with my notebooks. I do not dress in a colorful or interesting fashion. I consciously try to wear the least remarkable and most hobo-like things I can, most of the time. Dad wanted me to buy something "cute." I don't like to look cute around people I don't know. I'd rather people not talk to me at all than talk to me just because I look cute. And if you like me already, then you won't care whether I look cute or not. So what reason do I ever have to get dressed up?
Poetry Collective gave me a list of poets to look up at the end of the school year, and I haven't looked up any of them. I feel really bad about that. Maybe they will have forgotten about it, and I can check out some new poetry from the library. Maybe I will go through with my plan to liberate the Allen Ginsberg anthology from the Kaya.
I talked to my roommate. Her name is Sarah. She's a freshman. She says she is very easy-going and is a "people pleaser." She says she will totally change to please other people. On one hand, this is good because it means she's not as neurotic as Ashley was, and I will be able to ask her to turn down her music without fear of censure. On the other hand, this might mean that she has absolutely no self-esteem and depends, leechlike, on the approval of others to bolster her own self-worth. I really hope it just means she's not neurotic.
I'm going to have to share a room again. I don't want that. I just want my own little room with my books and an Internet connection and a soft bed and some tea and sandwiches and maybe a television. And I never need to come out, and I never need to talk to anyone except online. Maybe I will have a girlfriend who will come over every once in a while. And a pet toad named Herbert.
You know, it really is a good thing that I broke up with Tammy, because I don't think she would understand me at all anymore, and the preceding paragraph would just alienate her.
I still would like a pet toad.
Adaptive Systems gives relationship advice (found on SomethingAwful.com forums)
I’m not going to kid you. I have the answer to your problems. Three words:
Stop fighting yourself.
Your unhappiness is a symptom; a symptom of your insisting that you pursue things that you are not only not meant to have, but which would actively damage you if you were to obtain them. You are not meant to find an easy, shallow happiness like the less talented and less complicated do. You are not meant to waste your time listening to John Boring Heterosexual and his bullshit. You were meant to focus your attention on more esoteric and rewarding matters. Perhaps you are meant to take up fencing, and escrima, and discover the lost, five-hundred year old link between those modern arts that was lost when the Spaniards and their Galleons drove it underground. Perhaps you are meant to discover the connection between the revolutionary poetry of Mayakovsky and his knowledge of a librarian lost to history who set forth a pure, complete, sound philosophy proving that all human labor builds inexorably to a day that all our dead fathers shall be bodily resurrected on this earth, through human technology. Perhaps you will discover the link between information theory and molecular biology, lying unsuspiciously in view of mankind, waiting for you to show the world that microarray data illustrates that the NP-complex problem of modeling all the tens of thousands of human proteins and their virtually infinite reactions can be adequately modeled through the use of overlapping Bayesian networks, and dream of genetically engineering human life for this and potentially endless alien worlds will become not just a possibility, but an inevitably. Perhaps you are meant to become a graphitii artist, and cover the alleys of ghettos with words from your dreams, evocative polyvalent phrases such as: "KILL THE KING" and unnumbered kindred souls you shall never meet shall see your words and feel solidarity, and their heads shall hit their pillows with plans for freedom they would otherwise not have chanced.
Any one of those possibilities and uncountable billions more beckon to you from the unconquered nothing of the future. But none of them shall be possible for you if you insist on smashing yourself upon the never-loving jagged rocks that are hearts of others. For you are presently living your life like a watchmaker who works painstakingly all day on impossibly tiny gears and then rises from his desk at every twilight to smash his half-finished creations underfoot. Every day he returns to his desk and wonders why he is making no progress in his labor, and pulls out his hair in frustration. Do you understand the folly of that? Stop pouring out your blood into ancient porcelain vases that you can not help but see destroyed before your eyes.
Seek out something more enduring, some part of yourself as yet undiscovered, and your suffering shall cease, and you will no longer be slowly dieing in a world of spoken words, aloft in the air for an instant and eternally gone without appeal, and instead make your home in the endlessly expanding sphere of electromagnetic radiation that takes alight through our thought and emanates outwards into eternity.
We are only brought into this world as seeds, knowing only what it is to be subject to cast about on a frothing sea of never-willed forces, and only some of us shall have the good fortune to be washed far enough ashore to know what it is to bloom, and discover our original purposes unfathomable to those that are endlessly adrift.
It is a blessing. A gift. Do not make the mistake of taking it lightly.
That was the most inane stream-of-consciousness thing I've ever written in my life. It's because I'm fucking nervous for college. I'm so nervous that I have a stomachache and I was crying today, and it's more than a week before I go to college. I'm going to kill myself with nervousness before I ever get up there. I wasn't this nervous even my first year. I don't know why I'm this nervous now.
Dad just took me shopping for school supplies, and I freaked out because Staples didn't have the right kind of notebook (Mead spiral-bound, college-ruled, single-subject, 100 pages, different colors so I can tell my different subjects apart). I think I'm freaking out over little things like that because I think that if I obsessively organize the little things in my life, the big things will turn out OK. As above, so below.
He also took me to Salvation Army, which he said made him nervous because he didn't like the idea of buying other people's clothing. I took a long time picking out even one shirt. I have dull but exacting standards for my shirts, as I do with my notebooks. I do not dress in a colorful or interesting fashion. I consciously try to wear the least remarkable and most hobo-like things I can, most of the time. Dad wanted me to buy something "cute." I don't like to look cute around people I don't know. I'd rather people not talk to me at all than talk to me just because I look cute. And if you like me already, then you won't care whether I look cute or not. So what reason do I ever have to get dressed up?
Poetry Collective gave me a list of poets to look up at the end of the school year, and I haven't looked up any of them. I feel really bad about that. Maybe they will have forgotten about it, and I can check out some new poetry from the library. Maybe I will go through with my plan to liberate the Allen Ginsberg anthology from the Kaya.
I talked to my roommate. Her name is Sarah. She's a freshman. She says she is very easy-going and is a "people pleaser." She says she will totally change to please other people. On one hand, this is good because it means she's not as neurotic as Ashley was, and I will be able to ask her to turn down her music without fear of censure. On the other hand, this might mean that she has absolutely no self-esteem and depends, leechlike, on the approval of others to bolster her own self-worth. I really hope it just means she's not neurotic.
I'm going to have to share a room again. I don't want that. I just want my own little room with my books and an Internet connection and a soft bed and some tea and sandwiches and maybe a television. And I never need to come out, and I never need to talk to anyone except online. Maybe I will have a girlfriend who will come over every once in a while. And a pet toad named Herbert.
You know, it really is a good thing that I broke up with Tammy, because I don't think she would understand me at all anymore, and the preceding paragraph would just alienate her.
I still would like a pet toad.
Adaptive Systems gives relationship advice (found on SomethingAwful.com forums)
I’m not going to kid you. I have the answer to your problems. Three words:
Stop fighting yourself.
Your unhappiness is a symptom; a symptom of your insisting that you pursue things that you are not only not meant to have, but which would actively damage you if you were to obtain them. You are not meant to find an easy, shallow happiness like the less talented and less complicated do. You are not meant to waste your time listening to John Boring Heterosexual and his bullshit. You were meant to focus your attention on more esoteric and rewarding matters. Perhaps you are meant to take up fencing, and escrima, and discover the lost, five-hundred year old link between those modern arts that was lost when the Spaniards and their Galleons drove it underground. Perhaps you are meant to discover the connection between the revolutionary poetry of Mayakovsky and his knowledge of a librarian lost to history who set forth a pure, complete, sound philosophy proving that all human labor builds inexorably to a day that all our dead fathers shall be bodily resurrected on this earth, through human technology. Perhaps you will discover the link between information theory and molecular biology, lying unsuspiciously in view of mankind, waiting for you to show the world that microarray data illustrates that the NP-complex problem of modeling all the tens of thousands of human proteins and their virtually infinite reactions can be adequately modeled through the use of overlapping Bayesian networks, and dream of genetically engineering human life for this and potentially endless alien worlds will become not just a possibility, but an inevitably. Perhaps you are meant to become a graphitii artist, and cover the alleys of ghettos with words from your dreams, evocative polyvalent phrases such as: "KILL THE KING" and unnumbered kindred souls you shall never meet shall see your words and feel solidarity, and their heads shall hit their pillows with plans for freedom they would otherwise not have chanced.
Any one of those possibilities and uncountable billions more beckon to you from the unconquered nothing of the future. But none of them shall be possible for you if you insist on smashing yourself upon the never-loving jagged rocks that are hearts of others. For you are presently living your life like a watchmaker who works painstakingly all day on impossibly tiny gears and then rises from his desk at every twilight to smash his half-finished creations underfoot. Every day he returns to his desk and wonders why he is making no progress in his labor, and pulls out his hair in frustration. Do you understand the folly of that? Stop pouring out your blood into ancient porcelain vases that you can not help but see destroyed before your eyes.
Seek out something more enduring, some part of yourself as yet undiscovered, and your suffering shall cease, and you will no longer be slowly dieing in a world of spoken words, aloft in the air for an instant and eternally gone without appeal, and instead make your home in the endlessly expanding sphere of electromagnetic radiation that takes alight through our thought and emanates outwards into eternity.
We are only brought into this world as seeds, knowing only what it is to be subject to cast about on a frothing sea of never-willed forces, and only some of us shall have the good fortune to be washed far enough ashore to know what it is to bloom, and discover our original purposes unfathomable to those that are endlessly adrift.
It is a blessing. A gift. Do not make the mistake of taking it lightly.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Nervousness...
Date: 2005-08-17 05:12 am (UTC)I know what you mean. I was having a breakdown today because I couldn't figure out how much money I was getting back from my loan stuff. With the way things were looking, I was assuming the worst and that I wouldn't get any money back and therefore wouldn't be able to buy books, buy a cell phone and do all the spiffy things I want to do (like move into a house in November). So I was freaking out. I think a good portion of my cold is due to stress over starting school a week from tomorrow. That and lack of sleep. I don't think I was this nervous back in 1991 the first time I started college. Now I'm rusty.
Dad just took me shopping for school supplies, and I freaked out because Staples didn't have the right kind of notebook (Mead spiral-bound, college-ruled, single-subject, 100 pages, different colors so I can tell my different subjects apart).
Go to Wal-Mart. At least, at the ones down here, they're running 10¢ a piece. I've got tons. I've got tons, but I'll still probably buy at least 20 more. I've got an addiction to office supplies. You ever want me to do something? Offer me pens and paper. I'm a sucker for that stuff. :D
I'd rather people not talk to me at all than talk to me just because I look cute. And if you like me already, then you won't care whether I look cute or not. So what reason do I ever have to get dressed up?
Well, you are cute. I just happen to love you for you first and foremost. Your cuteness is a bonus. :) Of course, you will have reasons to dress up. When I take you to dinner or such fun outings, I'm sure there will be occasions we dress up a little nicer (no heels though...fuck, I can't walk in heels! GAH!). *grinwink*
Poetry Collective gave me a list of poets to look up at the end of the school year, and I haven't looked up any of them. I feel really bad about that. Maybe they will have forgotten about it, and I can check out some new poetry from the library. Maybe I will go through with my plan to liberate the Allen Ginsberg anthology from the Kaya.
What list of poets?
Maybe I will have a girlfriend who will come over every once in a while.
I'll try and sneak in sometimes...when I can twitch my nose all Bewitched-like and zap myself up to Michigan. :D
Re: Nervousness...
Date: 2005-08-17 07:10 pm (UTC)Ah-ha, Wal-Mart! There aren't any near here. Hmm...maybe K-Mart, they're almost the same thing.
:happy: Then I will have a good excuse to wear the gold-purple shimmery dress I got today. If it still fits me.
As for the list of poets, I asked for some recs last year from the Poetry Collective people, and everyone wrote down a poet they liked. I lost the list. Argh.
Re: Nervousness...
Date: 2005-08-17 11:03 pm (UTC)K-Mart, Wal-Mart, Target...they should all have the notebooks for 10¢ a piece. I didn't get any today ('cuz I got a 1 1/2" binder and an eyeliner pencil) but I will when I get the loan money. But those places have the best prices on school supplies.
Ooh...gold-purple shimmery dress. I want pictures!!!!!
Ah. Losing lists. I've done that before.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-17 07:11 pm (UTC)Poets
Date: 2005-08-17 03:16 pm (UTC)Ferlinghetti's a lot more fun than either of them (he never took himself seriously), so get a couple kilos of him, too.
And always, ALWAYS, sleep with a copy of Whitman under your pillow. He's everyone's first-answer fave, but sometimes, ever so rarely, even the most popular turns out to be the best.
Stay away from any poet who has a Ph.D or teaches for a living.
Re: Poets
Date: 2005-08-17 07:12 pm (UTC)That leaves out my English teacher last year. I thought there was something a little fishy about him. Besides the fact that he looked a little like a fish.
Re: Poets
Date: 2005-08-17 07:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-08-18 01:40 am (UTC)