i see you wave your hand and disappear

"I hate that... I hate bespoke because I hate to be touched by strangers. It bores me to death." -Karl Lagerfeld

Three weeks into summer, and I've achieved nothing and have noticed nothing. I've been suspended before a vacuum--and that's how it has always been when I'm in Florida. It's strange how I can never wait to get back... I guess it's an inherent part of my personality to be sadistic, to always want what I can't have, to always be where I hate to be, to always subject my presence to those I despise.

I need to set some goals for myself. At this very moment, I'm completely useless. Maybe I'll put myself to good use. Start a club for atheists or something (note: when I came home, which happened to be at night, I was horrified to find that they have placed a GIANT white glowing cross outside my neighborhood--it's the only thing you can see for miles in this pseudo-countryside). Maybe get fit or learn a new language.

Maybe I'll go to work, even though I hate the idea. I've held ONE real job in my lifetime, and it lasted all of maybe 50 hours.

So, basically this is an update on how boring my life is.

Love,
Liz

"The Seal" - Fool's Garden

happy cinco de mayo!

"... they always try 2 make it seem like everything is about my ego! That joke is getting old." -Kanye West

One more week until I'm hooome! In my not-even-drunken-yet stupor, I had left my over-the-shoulder bag (containing: wallet, keys, two pairs of black pumps, & my phone) at the on-campus eatery Saturday night. I'm so fucking dumb, it's ridiculous. Hopefully, my shit doesn't get stolen... as often as I lose things, I'm glad I've never been robbed (here, anyway).

One paper, one exam, lots of German--here's to one last grueling week before I'm free.

gaolhouse rock

"I didn't take your money when I had ALL your credit cards locked up in my dreams." -Charles Manson

Wow, who knew Mr. Manson had an inner Rimbaud? There's something hauntingly creepy about that sentence, and it's not only because it's from a serial killer to a (theoretical) ten-year-old boy. Point is, Manson and Rimbaud are both fucking NUTS. However, I'm unflaggingly curious; should I play pen-pals with a serial killer? Would he write me prose poems? Because I want prose poems, but maybe permanent solitary reclusion is a weak substitute for absinthe.

And I'm thinking of children-eaters and man-slayers when I should be--

I should be doing laundry. Four piles, consisting of wet towels, old jeans, soiled dresses & other things, lay about on my floor. They've been growing for about two point two weeks and have begun to integrate into each other. I'm out of socks (but it's springtime [but it might rain]). I can't bring myself to move, however; the exhaustion imposed by living in this dump is bereaving me of all energy. But I'm comfortable. I can't be bothered once I'm comfortable.

property rights

What the fuck. Here I am, trying to be studious for once in my college life (can I admit to you this is my second year at Brown and this is the first time that I've ever used the library to do my work?) and the guy who chooses to sit in front of me happens to be the loudest motherfucker on the planet. I mean, there I was, all awkward and insecure about my cowboy boots clacking away on the linoleum tiles when no one's making a sound (you always have to be quiet in a library, right?) and here he comes stomping in. He plays his music without earphones (fucker!) and it's jazz (motherfucker! because I can't concentrate when jazz's playing) and he's eating something hot and meaty-smelling (rawr?) and slopping about like I don't belong here.

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.