Proof that I am an angsty, whiny 15 year old in my heart of hearts:

Let’s get real. I find it entirely entertaining that my monthly loan payments for my English degree are equivalent to the year of the Norman invasion. OH, the irony! So apropos, some might say. I also find it thoroughly entertaining that Wells Fargo expects me to pay said amount. Oh, just put it on my credit card, yiss? My only solution is consolidation you say? Extend the loan until I’m 47, is that so? I’m just proud I did not cry over the phone…very loudly.

Wells Fargo lady says there’s a Plan B: file for bereavement. Oh, honey, I’ve been bereaving this day for quite some time. Step 1: denial/numbness. Does not look for job the entire summer after graduation–basks in parttime work and naps. What loan? Check. Step 2: anger/blaming others. Curses school and other factors that shall go unnamed. Check. Step 3: bargaining. Considers offering up first born, renting out womb, Googles whether becoming a quadriplegic will void my loans (yes, yes it does). Check. Step 4: depressed mood, sadness and crying. If I had a nickel for every tear shed, let’s just say, I still wouldn’t be able to make my loan payment but I would have a lot of vending machine loot. Step 5: I refuse to accept this. Uncheck. Fuck this shit.

A lost cause. An indentured servant to the man. In the market for a sugar daddy. whinewhinegrumblegrumble

In other news:

I don’t care what anyone says–I’ve resolved that Christmas music is perfectly acceptable before Thanksgiving.

Some might say that I am a pessimist. I agree with that some. But when it comes to people, I think I’m generally overly optimistic. I would probably be anyone’s friend if they wanted me to. I hope that doesn’t cheapen my friendship.

I was thinking about how lying should never be the antithesis of honesty. Honesty has nothing to do with not lying. Honesty has everything to do with not being a hermit. Lies is to truth as hermit is to honest.

[enter all other unintelligible, sans eloquence anecdotes here]

The Failed Generation of Ideas

I get these brilliant ideas for things to write at the most inopportune times. Most frequently while driving. I do a lot of behind the wheel brainstorming. And I’ve found that these writing revelations sound much better at 80 mph then they do at 70 wpm. Here is an example of undecipherable notations taken at freeway speed:

Let us assess the situation. One, I wrote this 48 days ago whilst driving home from work in a moment of keen inspiration. I have clearly taken full advantage of this inspiration by letting it go to the idea graveyard of bad bulletpointing.

Here’s what I can make out:

I want to start a serious relationship. A committed, caring, equal parts give and take, full-fledged relationship. With pancakes. And waffles. And bacon and eggs. Breakfast, I can’t get enough of you and I think we’re really good for one another. —somehow I work the term “craven” in here and conclude with my being hungry? I promise it was meant to be really clever and make everyone, including (and primarily) breakfast, want to date me. I need to be more thorough on my idea-jotting. Note to self: notes.

Also, I am really great with diversity. My awkwardness knows no cultural bounds.

As for the rest, I have no idea. Really? Google+? It was divine providence that these ideas never took full form. I have a lot of formless ideas. I’m a half-hearted creative. Make that one-fourth.

A few addendums to my notes.

There is a point where I do not know whether to try harder or to stop trying so hard.

I also try to come up with the “I’ve never” of the day, but I’ve run out of non-humiliating concepts.

If Forced, I Write Stories. And Like Doing it.

I have some new ideas for content but rather than post those, I will give you something I was re-reading. Because complacency trumps inspiration. I wrote this 2 years ago. Its ambiguity might be disconcerting, but I wonder if it is still understandable.

 

Investigation of Imitation

            I regret to say that my findings are not as I expected.  This and every dwelling I searched contains an item that they must consider to be a mandatory element.  What it is I cannot be sure, but I will relay my discoveries as thoroughly as my understanding allows.  My observations show that it comes in several sizes.  There are those that can be held with ease and those which are fixed, meant to be set in place.  Its purpose is one of information; it reveals and imparts.  It is a constituent of adornment often fastened to the boundary markers between the compartments in a residence.

Unlike the ancestor, memories, and still life hung alongside, this captured moment is not limited, it moves and imitates.  Its images are like a settled water glimpse.  I look and see an infinite self back through my eyes. It captures more than the ephemeral, it continuously dictates the current.  A locked window that cannot be opened, it shows me a companion, a perfect match though cold and unreachable.  The ultimate copy, the imitator has my clothes, my organic self.  I sense the mimic but cannot empathize.  I recognize but cannot feel.  It models my peaceful countenance then echoes my conspicuous fear.  It can only feel as I feel, not the reverse. It maintains flawless synchronicity with my investigation.

My companion waits for my initiation of action.  When I speak, it does as well.  I cannot understand its words, however, for the ones that I convey overpower. I cannot help but think it only seeks to impress, for its personality simply matches my own.  It is severely focused; I cannot keep my eyes open long enough to find it blink.  As long as I gaze, its stare does not waver.  I did not know I could find such a connection here, a similar mind and body, though distant and less physical.  It is as if it is awaiting manifestation.  Every one of my acts is reacted to without delay, but it knows no originality.

Behind the imitator I see the room, the same as where I stand though opposite.  The objects to my left are at my copy’s right. It is the same world I explore, but everything is shifted into a mode of reverse.  I would have proceeded to move forward and enter the opposing room revealed, but an invisible barrier prevents me from going inside.  My imitator wants to enter my side of the obstruction with equal curiosity but we are simultaneously denied.  I want to go through this window, this door, but I am blocked from experiencing what is and can only see what is.  I wonder whether it is me or the imitator who is held captive behind the blockade.

I want to look further into this scene.  More than look, I want to inspect.  I am questioning whether it is me or the imitator who is the original. What are these moving images for?  Should I be viewing or reviewing?  I cannot determine whether I am looking into or at something.

I think the imitator should be more responsive. Is this where camaraderie is expected to be found?  A companion is one who gives and takes; one who acts rather than simply reacts.  How can I be expected to involve myself when interactions are only responses?

What is the purpose of such a device?  I cannot determine its necessity in every dwelling.  It is an entity which cannot be expected to be simply glanced upon for aesthetic value or to invoke a memory.  It demands a response; it forces the viewer to become aware of self.

I cannot say with absolute assurance that this discovery has been helpful in deciphering this world’s psyche.  They may use these machines as pleasing images. I see them as a vain mockery of what exists.  There is an entire unexamined world behind that impenetrable barrier that each side wants to break through.  I want to look forward into this world shown to me by the imitator, but am left to only look back at where I stand.  The world presented in these images is one that lacks tangible physicality, left simply to representation.  This lack of sensation leaves me unaffected and hardened to the sentiment I could share with my imitator.  Though this shows me an animated version of another place, it is merely a reflection of what is and does not warrant my attention for further investigation.

____________________________________________________________________

In other news: I miss the time when I found myself more fluent with words

 

Deadbeat College Grad

I did it. The big one. The four year degree. The B.A. The end of the most important experience of one’s life. My reward? Laziness and the air of uselessness. I have to make excuses to run errands and pester my friends to entertain me. I work a part time job and rarely before 4 pm. 7am rise and shine routine? Try painstakingly forcing myself to open the blinds by 11. I tried to prepare by reminding myself for how awkward this transition was going to be. The phasing out of training and the immersion into professional…minus the professional part. Let’s be honest, the “phase,” “transition,” and any other action verb has yet to take place. Limbo. It’s less awkward than it is just plain despairing. Speaking of action verbs, I spent 2 hours trying to come up with half a dozen for my resume. It’s hard to think about how you implement, embark, produce, achieve, etc when you can’t remember a single productive thing you’ve done in the past 31 days.

But there are those day-to-day accomplishments I can boast. Today’s resume:

Laundry Attendant              11:00 – Present

Azusa, CA

• Successfully accounted for each item of dirty laundry, organized into corresponding color piles, and transferred into appropriate machinery

Kitchen Associate              1:15 – 1:35

Azusa, CA

• Initiated the cleansing of macaroni-encrusted pans and implemented a new recycling-trash bag distinction program

I get jealous every time I hear of someone landing a professional position. And then I remember, oh yeah, I probably need to apply somewhere. But I have somehow become comfortable with the steady pace of mediocrity. I have missed the distinction between want and need–and because I have less money in my bank account than the amount of monthly rent, I should probably figure out which of those words relates to my job search.

I’ve never of the day: Never had a real job. A salaried one.

Further notes of self-deprecation: I am beginning to question my abilities as an English degree-holder. Dear Michael Chabon, you force me to carry a dictionary.

On a lighter note: Oh hey cute policeman in the coffee shop. Glendora Police Department: what up?

Tags: college, job search

Moody duties

I am useless without responsibilities. My version of self motivation requires an external push and recently I’ve found it easy to ignore the instigators of encouragement. Instigator is a funny word. A rare swamp breed that gets me off my lazy ass. A very persuasive gator, indeed.

I have a thought about moods. About being in a funk or tired or just filled with an inexplicable sense of angst. Rant: initiated. I am certainly guilty of blaming the mood on itself. It’s a little bit of a cyclical excuse. But I think you choose the mood, not the other way around. And this is where we get off, where I get off, explaining away my general disregard for other’s feelings based on the number of hours of sleep I had. It’s the  ”I’m on my period so I have free reign to be a total bitch” argument. It’s all a tad bit ridiculous. Nope, you’re being rude because you’re selfish or careless, not because the stars didn’t align that day or you woke up on an usual side of the mattress. I think the worst is, “Don’t take it personally, I’m just a sarcastic person.” No, nope. You’re just a jerk without the gall to face up to your insults. From now on, if I’m going to be curt or blunt or insensitive there will be no, “I’m sorry, I’m tired” apology, but rather, “Whoops, I let the asshole part of my character get the best of me.” Feel free to call me out. Sorry if this rant sounds judgmental. I’m tired.

Oh, the irony.

This commercial made me tear up. Brilliance. Pure genius. 

Also, I’ve never lived by myself. But I sort-of am, now.

Words. Sentence fragments.

Papers and tests and lectures. Almost back to the real world.  Speaking of which, I have returned to the artificial world of the interwebs–letting its oily appendages seep into every crevice of my existence. Yeah, that sounded sexual. Alternative explanation: lent is over and time-wasters have been made easily accessible. Tumblr WILL take over.

Weird things are happening. New things. And old ones. Old things in new clothes, maybe.

I’m really bad at being mean. But also, inadvertently or unwittingly  good at it. I apologize for not recognizing my insensitivity  and I am also sorry for oversensitizing when I should be honest.

Brave. Positive. Honest. Three words that are going into my unwritten manifesto.

I’ve never been inside of a Sam’s Club. In my mind, it is a mystical, magical world. Where unicorns and rainbows come in bulk. And I never want that image to be ruined. Shhhh.

Sanity: Threat Level Red

Despite how life changing college is meant to be, I feel a lack of mental preparation for life after classes, feigned academia, and half-assed research. Me in the sea of educated misfits. You tell me every other graduate is feeling this, you’re not bettering my crisis. You’re just multiplying it to include the masses. Four years, and if I’m honest with myself, I put more into school than I give myself credit for and a lot less than others give to me. And settling somewhere between over exertion and a total lack of effort is exactly where I fit most comfortably. Which is why satisfaction is in very scarce supply.

I think this post is prone to cryptic ramblings of introspection. And so as not to disappoint, meaningless rambles: commence.

I budget my attentiveness to consolidate disappointments and achievements into measurable categories. There are boundaries to assure limitations. The bipolar can relate with this fear: the letting up of one emotional extreme will inevitably warrant the converse.  So I tic the the number of let downs to ensure they match up with the number of successes, which leaves a healthy leveling out. Which is the rationalization of my reservation on passion, inward deprecation, and a general tendency to scoff at dreams that are not easy to fulfill.

I’ve never had a permanent falling out with someone. As far as I know. Save for that weird kid who asked me to Jr/Sr banquet (I used the just friends line. I was caught off guard, okay.) Also, I think I attract the crazies. Because opposites attract–and I’m the most sane person I know. Obviously.

Toy while light

Stephenie Meyer may have stolen the rising and the setting sun, no big deal, but she will never take my waxing crescent. I’m working on a story. But it’s about a sexy Sasquatch. It’s gonna be so vamp. Wait no. So sas. So squatch?

 

Also, a new way to avoid paying attention in lectures: breaking professors’ words into smaller words.

Pro fish cent.

Knee goat she ate shun.

An I’m moss city.

You knit tea.

Pun niche mint.

 

Boredom averted. Or should I say board dumb? A wise use of brain power. My education is only in the few dozen thousands. But you can’t really put a price on that, right? Though I have a feeling Wells Fargo may prove me wrong in another 13 months. I think I read something about first-born child in the loan agreement…

 

I’ve never won a sweepstakes.

 

It’s a pillow, it’s a pet, it’s somebody’s dog crossing the street.

Today has been a blog worthy day.  Well, technically everyday should be a blog worthy day if I can only muster up the inspiration to superimpose literary genius onto banal prose.  But alas, I battle with my limited imaginative analogies and fixed vocabulary. But back to the real juice. The dish. The scoop. The meat. Is there a reason why content is synonymous with food and eating?  Breaking news is to eating as uninformed is to hungry. News is the opposite of boring and eating is the same as hearing something good.  But really, let’s talk food.

Today I smelled soup cooking. At 9:30 in the morning. I felt sick to my stomach. And hungry. Sick because soup and sick go hand in hand. Hungry because a girl’s gotta eat. But really that was just news on food to further prove my point of the inseparable relationship of news and food and was entirely irrelevant. Proceed.

It’s been an interesting,  unrelated-snapshot-series-of-scenes kind of a day.  First, I watched a dog cross a cross walk. Alone–and in the lines. Obeying the traffic rules as any considerate pedestrian would. Do you understand this–the part about it being a dog?  In retrospect I question my choice of breakfast. I will never again eat strawberry flavored mini wheats–I can no longer trust their chemical composition. Because either dogs understand traffic laws or I was on some sort of wheatie, strawberry, sugary, lactose trip.

Next I saw a tumbleweed. Who knew they existed outside of cartoons? Yeah, Bonanza, I can see it.  But Azusa, really?

I got waved down by campus safety for driving recklessly. That was the quickest I’ve ever scene an “officer” move.  I’ll have you know I’m an excellent driver. It was the strawberry mini wheats, I tell you.

Finally,  I smashed pillows against my face followed by a 10 minute debate with a fellow pillow-shopper. Where to get them. JC Penny’s she says. Costco I say. Why are we at Target, I wonder? We found camaraderie in our loss of hope in the pillow industry and our general disregard for the quality-price match up.

I’ve never been in love.

Also, I spent $27.98 on 2 pillows today. A sound investment.

Disregard at Paragraph 4

     I have two new obsessions.  Borderline obsessions. Maybe just things I find interesting.  They’re amusing. Titillating–maybe a word with stronger connotations than I’m willing to commit to.  This works: 2 things that I like that I didn’t last week.  Fizzy water and children’s anime cartoons.  Pelligrino and Ponyo.  They could become lasting infatuations.  Or more likely I’ll forget about them next week.  Because I’m a sprinter not a marathon runner. 

     I think it’s easy to be sincere without being devoted. 

     I’ve never been between Arizona and North Carolina–besides their airspace.  I google mapped it.  That’s about 1,600 miles of latitudinal American soil I’ve never stepped foot on.  I’ve been to more European countries than states.  But I digress.

   In conclusion, Freud’s idea of the uncanny is that deja vu glimpse of the unattainable ideal state of human perception of the world which would come before the mirror stage but that which we can never fully comprehend.  Raymond Chandler is the father of noir.  Think like a writer, not like a critic.  Gleason is in HR.  The Bundren’s are struggling with the Thanatos.  Mid range motions.  Como se dice confused en espanol?

   I don’t know if I can retain any more information.