in case anyone is really reading this, you can find me back at

old-story.diaryland.com

i just don't like the layout here.

and all of my life is back there. and i'm too easy to find here. so there.

amorphophallis

i love that things like this exist. the corpse flower. smells like rotting meat when it blooms, and essentially has a giant dick crawling out of it. only seems appropriate, right?

anyway, if you'd like to read about the corpse flower, go here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titan_arum

the world should be pickled with things like this. it makes me relieved. good and evil exist even in the kingdom of flowers. every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

it's monday and i'm not teaching. instead i ebay'd and ordered some canvas bag which i will turn into purses for my etsy shop. i'm not a super great sewer. sewist, but fuck, i'll give anything i try once. or twice. or whatever. i was going to utilize my crockpot today to be the good little housegirlfriend that i am, but i found out that you have to cook chicken for like 8 hours in order for it to cure. ha. cure. cook. you know what i mean. i am hungover. this is the first time i have had a drink since last friday. i think i've document my sickness via flickr, and used the phrase "i'm so achy" at least a dozen times around andy, (which was pointed out to me yesterday).

whoops, right?

it's been unbearably hot over the past few days here in chicago. lake effect my ass. andy and i are not doing our part to save the environment by jacking up the ac and cuddling underneath blankets. and you know what? i don't really give a fuck. which gives me an idea for a t-shirt.

so do i miss it? teaching? fuck no, not now. last year i used all of june to decompress and fucking forget about the horrors of the building that i work in. so much so that i will having nothing of interest to journal about, unless you want to count my drunken escapades. although, even those are less interesting now that i have a boyfriend. last summer i really went fucking nuts with the drinking and tomfoolery. or was it the year before? i have no clue, because once i hit 23, time started to melt together.

that's the nature of nostalgia. or a person who loves it, at least.

sometimes i read my own words, and they seem to be coming from someone else.

are these my own?

is this real?

is this really happening?

dont get any big ideas.

i am drunk.


make judgments.

thought.

blip.

if you're feeling sinister, go off and see a minister

...he'll try in vain to take away the pain of being a hopeless unbeliever.

i spent so much time this morning constructing a journal entry about how i planned to assuage my anxiety and depression into submission this summer. however, it was lost somewhere in internet land, among the 1's and 0's. goodbye entry.

i'm exhausted, as you might imagine. i teach 8th grade. i mentioned that, right? 8th grade language arts and reading. the kids are a bit rowdy (that's being kind) and just done. fucking done. i've sort of gotten to the point in the year where i simply shrug my shoulders and let the chaos ensue. i seriously forgot how to spell that word for a moment there. do you see how melty my brain is?

anyway, i feel like it's my responsibility (because it is) to check in every little god forsaken thing that the students need to turn in at the end of the fucking year. i keep waiting for the office to tell me to have the kids turn in their souls. i'd imagine it might go something like this:

me: but what if they want their souls?
admin: no matter, the budget doesn't include new souls for next year. tell the little bastards to pony 'em up...oh, and we'll need your soul too.
me: but i gave you my soul months ago.
admin:tough shit, find a new one or we're taking it out of your paycheck.
me: sigh *click* pow.

did i tell you that i am in the lowest paying district in all of cook county? well there, now i did. if you're really fucking weird, google it, you'll find me. fuck.

anyway, as i said a few meandering sentences above, here are several of my ideas for ridding myself of anxiety over the summer:

1. find a half-marathon to run, and train really hard. there's nothing quite like running and exercise to help me get rid of panic attacks, so i figure i could simply run myself into happiness. at least it's a natural endorphin rush. if you know of a half-marathon i can sign up or in the chicago area, let me know.

2. find a job. a really fucking worthless job, that, if i wanted to, i could pull off the apron/uniform at any point, throw it down on the floor, exclaim, "i quit!" like they do in the movies, a walk out stomping my feet so some feminist 60's song. i've always wanted to fuck some superior manager asshole over but never the financial means. not that i do now, but at least i'm not in dire straits, you know?

3. teach a photography class. this is a dream, not a reality. i don't think anyone is interested in film photography anymore, and i dont' think my teaching certification qualifies me to teach older people. but that's what i want to do. if you know of a place i could do this, i will fuck you. for like, a long time. or give you cookies.

4. drink incessantly, run occasionally, and take a fuckload of xanax. i'm fairly certain that for at least one or two weeks this summer, i will fall into this rut. apologies ahead of time.

feedback is appreciated.

xo

b

i was thinkin i could clean up for christmas.

jesus, every time i think my life is bad, i just read becky's blog and realize that my life isn't so bad after all. ahh, the mishaps of picking the wrong person. the visceral love only lasts so long. the lark, the plunge. i've done it. it's slightly masochistic, a secret masochism that you don't really understand as that while you're going through it. dear becky, i hope you get some help. perhaps it's gone beyond your own resolve. i hope you see it that way. it's tough looking from the inside out. i know.

through the looking glass, through the viewfinder. a snapshot of a view that's not real.

love is like that. false hope, warmth.

or i should say, lust is like that.

i've always wondered why it's so hard for her to get real help. not just reading philosophy and creating a plan. i mean, it's not working, you know? how long until it really makes sense to her? i think it's hard when you want to believe your strong enough to do it on your own. unfortunately, none of us are, you know?

i'm hungover. really. andy and i found a stray dog on our way home from the bar last night. we took him back to the bar and they called the police for us. he was shaking. so cute. i have this thing about dogs. poor little shaky guy. a thing.

my head hurts. i would give anything for vicodin right now.