moving away from the pulsebeat

I'm so glad that Spring Break begins TOMORROW, although, in my typical foolish fashion, I still have a paper to write. Why so eager for this break? In addition to the fact that I'll get to indulge my lazy side, this will be the long-awaited distancing I needed from the devil herself--my suitemate.

Think of the most annoying person possible. This person is 242,495 times WORSE. She's the most boorish unclassy thing to walk this planet. You'd never know she was a virgin from how wide (and permanently) her legs are spread.

Why did I live with her in the first place? I like to think of myself of a hero and would like to say my only reason was to save her roommate, who happens to be the sweetest girl on earth. But really, I suppose it's because she used to seem pretty. These days, however, the prettiness has dwindled down to beady eyes and a thin upper lip; in other words, I'm finding it mightily difficult to see anything attractive about her. She stands like a chimp: ass out, boobs up, eyes glassy, mouth open. She has a ghetto air about her, but it's less urban and more destitute. She's got all the volume of a Texan drunk, all the swagger of a D-list white rapper, the frugality of a Vietnamese immigrant grandmother, and a vulgarity even Hugh Heffner would shun.

Jordan/Katie Price has a mile of style and class on her; that's how AWFUL she is. Whenever she opens her mouth, my ears bleed from the sheer shrillness of her booming voice. She loves to sing and never relents to bless us with her sweet prickly falsetto. She dresses like a two-cent road slut meets 16 year old pregnant teenager--from Hiawassee Mobile Homes.

Did I also mention she is an awful person? She's a liar, a deceiver, a homewrecker, and just totally stupid. And proud. Basically, a complete and total Philistine. I'm glad 99% of the world doesn't take her seriously.

With love,
Liz

Also, I'm missing my necklace. Uh-oh.
ETA: I found my necklace! Hurrah!

it's one of those days

My suitemate, Cezanne, is off playing piano again, a sure sign that there's "trouble in paradise." We all know it has some sort of sentimental value, but nevertheless I never did understand what part of a person makes it so that music is the best, and sometimes only, therapist. Perhaps it's because I have not a single ounce of musical talent in me, and in some ways, I'm jealous of the obvious ability to cope.

My other roommate seems to just avoid everyone except the boyfriend and the therapist, and it's only an unimportant matter of time that she comes out, happy and toothy again with the usual bitchin' attitude. And lately, more often than not, there have no been no grey skies, so clearly, she must be getting better. And yet others deal by working out, painting, going for a long walk in cold weather. And most seem to just talk it out.

And me? I just think a lot. I keep it in and sometimes, I write myself temporary notes. I hate "talking it out" for every reason possible. I'm afraid of judgement. I'm afraid of having my emotions discredited. I'm afraid of putting a burden on a person who didn't ask for it. I'm afraid of being "that girl." I'm afraid of being misunderstood, and I'm afraid of giving people power over me. I'm afraid of a million things that come with confessing.

And honestly, I don't think I'm a troubled person. I certainly don't want to be seen as a troubled person, but sometimes, I fear I come off that way. It's just that I don't tell people things, and yeah, I see how frustrating I can be. I grew up being taught, "What you are is not as important as who you are." Perhaps I lived by it too literally; lots of people know who I am, and hardly anyone knows what I am.

Why am I thinking about this again? Because I think the aunt I spent an entire summer caring for has died--and I'm not going to prance around, crying my heart out, and "talking about it." It's become such a term, "talking." It's just not my style.

No one's confirmed it, but I feel it. It's the sound in my mom's voice when she talks about Vietnam and the absence of the subject when I call my grandmother. After hearing that she has gone into surgery once again, I woke up feeling a cold weight in my lungs. It's a familiar numbing feeling, a cross between the non-feeling of marijuana and the feeling of salt water from the beach drying on my back. Surgery after surgery, after a near solid year of her suffering, I'm ready to let her go. I'm not mourning, no. Because honestly? We all saw it coming. After years and years of death after death--Robert, grandpa, grandma, baby Frankie, Erica...--I've developed a coping mechanism. No, I'm not a cold person, but yes, I realize that death happens. It just does. Accidents, diseases, old age--I've known them all, these faces of departure.

And it's okay. Because maybe I just don't need to talk it out. Maybe I don't need to cope.

a very long engagement

Lately, I've become obsessed with Gaspard Ulliel, the pouty-lipped French actor with the Doberman wound dimple--for practically no other reason than that I am just. absolutely. bored.

Boredom is a dangerous friend of mine; it's the reason why I...
- decided to take Computer Science (and also the reason why I dropped it),
- never go to German, even though I know it's the singular thing hurting my grade,
- take pleasure in weekends of complete irresponsibility,
- admire hedonists,
- decided to live with someone I hated, a total homewrecker, the ultimate asperser, the bane of my existence (shall I describe in more words?),
- and most importantly, it's the reason why I start shit with people.

Ennui. Such a perfect word for my predicament.

Also, it's the reason why I'm beginning to write in this blog again. From now on, this blog will be put to use--it's going to be a feast, with annoying ramblings for silverware and post-modern (maybe) discourses for consumption.