Dream Hole v3.0 is up and running. It had been MUCH too long since the last visible difference in layout, and I was bored with it. If anyone really, really hates it, I can put the old one back up somewhere, and you can work with that.
Yay. I have been presented with a whole new semester and fresh classes to flunk. I just checked to see if the weird, secondary instructor who is not a TA for my web class graded my assignments yet. According to the grades page, he last did so on "January 25, 19100." ...Perhaps this explains some of my bitterness towards this school.
At least Punkin and I are equally sad and pathetic. We got a flyer in the mail today that details what services are covered under our prepaid student health thing. They offer "limited psychological counseling." I assume this means it’s over when I make the doctor twitch. Both of us ought to go in at once and really give them something to think about. She wants to go skating Saturday. I don’t really want to spend the next month limping across campus, but it might be interesting and distract me. I’ve had the opening theme to Evangelion in my head for days and am going to have to kill things if it doesn’t go away soon.
Sigh. I’m just in a Mood because I went visiting this weekend and was exposed to people for long periods of time. This is not necessarily a bad thing, because they were the right kind of people. It just depresses the hell out of me to come back here and shut myself up in the room again. After a bout of over-self-analysis, I think I’m afraid to make any more friends because they go away and leave me alone or develop new, frightening personalities with which I am incompatible. Biskit, my mama, and that boy are the only ones who will still love me in three years.
Today is Wednesday. That means Machine Gun Men. I have found their lair, only a few blocks from our dorm! Now I’m afraid to set off the bombs, because I don’t want my room to be included in the smoking crater
OKAY. Has anyone else at all heard anything about Paul having a forty-year-old blonde model girlfriend with one leg? Punkie told me that, but I can find neither confirmation nor denial anywhere online. This is beginning to annoy me. Linda’s only been dead, what, two years? If I’d known he’d be looking that soon, I’d have swum over there immediately after high school. And what’s up with one leg? I’m eighteen. I have both legs. I could be blonde. I COULD BE BLONDE...maybe this has no real significance in my life anymore, but....Aaah shit. One a demented, psychotic groupie, ALWAYS a demented, psychotic groupie. I will lie to myself no longer.
Whyyyyy his daughter had to name her baby Arthur, I will never know. Isn’t my little world already full of enough wretchedly hideous synchronicity WITHOUT THAT?
Now I am nineteen. I always seem to start these things one month and finish them the next. But it’s still Wednesday.
Happy little Coke girl me. I went though the Dreambook from Hell and deleted all the extra double-(triple-)(quadruple-)posted messages. I hadn’t read through that malformed monster in quite a while. I made Punkin go back and read some of hers from two years ago, and she couldn’t believe she had been that cracked out. Didn’t we all used to be a little (a LOT) stranger? Or are we now simply passively strange, as opposed to actively? Are we growing up, or is school just beating us down? Perhaps that level of psychosis just can’t be sustained for long without massive crack injections. I think my thyroid produces something a little more tranquilizing now.
Maybe something hallucinogenic.
Maybe I’m slowly becoming autistic. Increasingly often I have to have people repeat things before it will soak in or at least sound like English. Some morning I will get up, finally realize once and for all that my life is devoid of any meaning, sit down on the floor, and hum quietly to myself until Mom comes to take me home.
I may not make it as far as the Serenity-delusional state.
Most of my social trauma probably stems from the clan of freaks I had pre-Pookie, when I was fourteen and fifteen. I’d never really had a lot of friends at once before that. I was never entirely comfortable with the situation, because my brain was subconsciously warning me that they were all a bunch of literal crackheads. That would be why I now assume that everyone that I meet who seems nice is doing bowls of pot and having orgies with whipped cream and farm animals behind my back.
Some people should have been drowned at birth. It is not too late to rectify that oversight with a flamethrower.
Just when I was nearly reconditioned, they threw me in a dorm full of alcoholics and undid two years of self-therapy. I may be the only girl who will graduate from here without ever tasting beer or cigarettes or knowing what pot smells like or going clubbing downtown, and I may be boring and self-righteous, but at least my lungs and liver are absolutely pristine. This will no doubt be a great comfort to me when I am forty and still have no friends. I can sit around admiring X-rays of my healthy insides...healthy except for the giant brain tumor I got from overdosing on diet Coke and monitor radiation.
I will name it Eugene.
If I drop out and run away to Manitoba, will anyone still love me? I just found out my aunt lived in Manitoba for a while in the sixties and/or seventies when her husband of the time got drafted. I knew she lived in Canada, but I didn’t know it was MANITOBA. That is too perfect. Now I know I really will live there someday, since I am some kind of weird, sick clone off of Sandy. She was a spoiled brat; I’m a spoiled brat. She was a pookie major; I’m a pookie major. People like to call me Sandy (people being my father and various friends’ well-meaning but inherently frightening relatives). She dated Biskit’s dad for a while in the...Uh. Biskit’s parents got married in 1969. Sandy would have been 22 then. From this we can conclude that he and Sandy went out when she was somewhere around my age, which is a truly nasty thought. I will now change the subject.
Is Muncie just unspeakably boring, or what?
I am busily not studying for my pookie midterm tomorrow. The brain seems to want to play Donkey Kong instead. Sailorsomething is furious with me for playing an eight-bit game on a 32-bit pookie. He thinks I’m wasting 24 bits. I think they’re resting.
Sleep, happy bits. Mommy loves you.