My goals do not seem congruent with my lifestyle, unless I am really just a maniacal genius that shits out GREAT WORK ALL OF THE TIME with little to no effort. I am starting to wonder/worry if this path I took (a “baby step” into academia by way of a terminal master’s meant to flow into a ph.d.) is more convoluted than it needed to be. I’m more worried that I have perhaps misread my ability to apply a women’s studies masters into another field of social science. I’m also starting to feel a lot like I have to choose academia over personal relationships, but that could just be me and my poor budgeting of time/totally fucked view of what “spending enough time together” even entails.
I have a lot of concerns and instead of like, addressing them, this is what happens.
I can’t even enjoy going out anymore, because all I can think about is how much work I have to do and how little my (non-student) friends understand. It’s getting to the point where I’m much happier staying in, drinking beer, and doing my work. The only real exception is seeing my boyfriend, which I will often choose over working — paradoxically, for the same reasons I reject going out with others. He makes me forget about work, because he has so little to be concerned with himself. I really look up to that; it must honestly be nice to just sort of happy with where you’re at and have no real ambition at all and just take things as they come. I’m too neurotic for that life.
I used to think maybe dating someone like him would be a bad thing. He can’t possibly understand or enjoy what I care about, but I’m starting to realize that is an incredibly awesome characteristic to have. He doesn’t love me for what I’m “into” or for what I care about, he just loves me for who I am on a very basic level. It’s great to be with someone who has totally separate concerns.
This still doesn’t make me feel like less of a shitty friend for wanting to put a moratorium on going out. I’d be up for getting lunch with my friends or grabbing a drink, but I fear my “nights of drinking” have come to an end. It takes up too much time that I need to spend on my research, and it fucks up my entire afternoon thereafter. Maybe I’m just grouchy and old. Maybe I’m overwhelmed and need to retreat back into myself, into my apartment or near my boyfriend - both places I feel safe and calm. Anything else leaves me wildly anxious and with a sense of impending doom.
I'm sure most of you will be glad to know that it's really jarring
to hear, “I’m not being mean, you’re just being too sensitive” come out of a mouth that isn’t mine directed to ears that are, in fact, mine.
Other oft-repeated Deannaisms I’ve heard today include, “You’re acting like a petulant, hormonal teenager” and “I’m kind, you’re just a baby.”
I guess we all get what we deserve eventually, right? I’m going to go back to being insensitive and impenetrable so no one has to be the baby in this relationship ever again. It was more comfortable that way, anyway.
The salient, most fucked up part of this is that in reality, I’m mostly upset that somehow, I’ve taken on the “baby” mantle. I don’t really understand not being #1. How am *I* the one perceived as weaker? Is this serious?
I only want to live in small places for the rest of my life.
Small places have such charm. They’re easy to clean. They feel homey. I always feel like I have to work so hard to feel comfortable in a big place. I love having my little room with the attached bathroom and a teeny, tiny apartment that is just big enough for all the stuff that I currently have and nothing more.
This is a huuuuuge project so if you want to help out let me know!
Tired of a history in which punk, hardcore & post-punk are cleaved. Tired of women disappearing from the history from 1981-1990 and then like 1994-2001. Tired of queercore being a footnote. Tired of overwhelming whiteness.
convincing myself not to give a fuck is WAY HARD even though literally no one else gives a fuck about the stuff I’m kind of supposed to be doing. F.U. Midwestern WASP work ethic/Catholic guilt, fuck everything, why can’t I just not care?
Midwestern WASP work ethic + Catholic guilt = my life, and all its problems, summed up.
This is the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’m so so so so sick of moving. I can’t do it again for a really long time, even if I ultimately dislike Gainesville. It just fucks with me in so many ways. It’s too much.
Look on any internet forum about gun ownership, you will find hundreds if not thousands of people with much larger firearms collections than that. Four guns is not a huge number, and it only takes one to kill. His collection is in no way unusually large.
The Norwegian Spree Killer (Who killed 77…
This isn’t really your opinion, right? RIGHT? I’m worried, now.
“You don’t like having serious talks while sober. I understand that about you. I don’t like having serious talks while drunk, though. We need to meet somewhere in the middle, okay? I really want to talk about this, but we have to both be comfortable with the circumstances.”—If I fuck this up, someone please come beat the actual shit out of me.
Yesterday, I had an anxiety attack for LITERALLY ten hours.
Have you ever felt like you had no control over how you felt? I literally sat there and thought to myself, “I cannot calm down.” From the moment I woke up, I was wound too tight. I spent nine hours in the hospital with my friend as she had liver surgery, too. I went out and got drunk as fuck and yelled and smoked and cried and ate pizza. I woke up this morning feeling hung over but GREAT. My bike is coming today. We woke up and stayed in bed and cuddled and messed around and watched The Untouchables and laughed about corrupt Chicago pigs and drank Gatorade. We went to the bike shop together to get lights and sat on the porch to enjoy the morning breeze.
I feel like I’m on vacation. All of the stress and the worry and the anxiety and the concern has been washed away with Coors and PBR and Gatorade and crazed infatuation and affection and now I just feel relieved. My friend is fine (the root of all of this craziness, really), my relationship is fine, my bike is arriving, I do not have to sit in a hospital anymore, and I can relax.
About to go play (read: watch) a game of queer kickball at the park. The girl will be there. I think it’s over which means I have to follow my #1 rule: look so fabulous every time you see an ex that they feel sick. Only problem is…. it’s KICKBALL. So do I wear my black mini skirt or not?
I’m sick as FUCK. My boyfriend was “sick as FUCK” last week and now he’s over it and the affliction has been passed to me like a hot potato, but the kind I totally don’t want to mash up and cover with cheddar cheese (mmmmmmm).
My voice is gone, if that’s any indication. I keep having these chesty (haha) coughs where it feels like I have clumps of hot death stuck somewhere in my lungs (that, incidentally, feel like a defunct air conditioner filter right now). My throat is killing me. I keep swallowing my own snot like a sick fuck. I did not sleep a wink last night.
Since I did not sleep last night (because I was busy making sounds that only come from horror movies ALL NIGHT LONG - and in a totally nonsexual way), my boyfriend also did not sleep last night. It doesn’t help that he basically has a twin size race car bed (not kidding - it’s really exactly like a race car bed) and we are two adults of above average height with prominent beer bellies and the drive to engage in futile struggles for the utter domination of the blankets and mattress. Poor dude worked from 10:30 AM to 2:30 AM yesterday and dedicated his much needed sleepytime to holding me and consoling me as I kept apologizing profusely for keeping him up all night (in the bad way).
We woke up after like three hours of sleep, talked about taking a bus to Asheville soon for funzies, ate Taco Bell, got tattooed together, and that’s my afternoon.
We divided up the last jello shot with our fingers and gleefully slurped our portion down. We discussed boys and tattoos and road trips and and Gainesville dating politics and rekindled our love for the quintessential whiskey and ginger ale. We are disappointed and jaded. We talk about a movie/weed night on Friday, complete with shitty pizza and needy cats. We can find an Andrew Jackson Jihad song to accompany every life situation.
Last night she kept asking me these questions that I just cannot answer. “Why am I feeling these tingles in my chest when we kiss?” “How is it that 13 hours feels like five minutes with you?” “Where does the time go?” “Why do I feel like this when you look at me?”