those summer days
I can feel my internal organs rotting as I type. I'm home from school for a month, and I'm pretty much wholly dependent on my parents financially. I need to get a job, but it's this damn sleeping problem I have that prevents it. I can only take 9 hours per semester in college, too, so I've resigned myself to creeping through life behind snails and old people.

it's not so much the inactivity that's murder-- I swear I've built up a threshhold of mind-blowing boredom to the limit. it's the fact that I'm here without anyone. I think my younger sister is just about the coolest Republican I know (she's determined to be a Republican b/c all her friends are, which is exactly why I can't stand the GOP- propagators of conformity. again, I'm stuck in a parenthetical statement, I know, but I just have to address this issue. I know I'm not a radical, nor am I a liberal among liberals. HOWEVER, living in the center of American middle-class mediocrity, I feel it my responsibility to be in the mood for change. I'm in no way, shape, or form a revolutionary; I usually wear a bra and when I don't, it's only to make my boobs look bigger. my favorite phrase is "fuck the machine" (or just "fight the machine", depending on my audience), but I realize I'm down here with the rest of the plebeans oiling its gears. oh well, woe is me, yada-yada-yada).

but I digress; my sister, Evan, would temper the dullness, but she's not here EVER. she got a puppy in late May named Bonnie, who's the very definition of pest. she whines ALL THE TIME, rubs her wet nose up and down my legs, and chews up every shoe she sees on the floor-- whether you're in them or not. really, she's adorable, but cuteness can get old with lightning speed.

I had planned to write more than just complaints, but my neck is starting to hurt.

caffeinated angst
Caffeinated angst
buzzing around
like a bee in a bonnet
I’ve got no time for a tail
‘til I’m on it
I race and I pace,
looking back as I go
I’m running in circles
from what I don’t know
I writhe and I wriggle
in my skin, in my fur
an itch I can’t scratch
is beginning to hurt
double that, triple that
jump it now, but it’s gone
I realize you’re right
as I realize I’m wrong
a day is a week
a month is a year
time’s quickly passing
while I age in my fear
the future’s so bright,
I’ve got to wear shades
f*** that, no it’s not,
the future’s been made.

30 June
12:59PM-- Sunday 13 July 2003
DISCLAIMER: the following is by no-means action-packed. I think I'm mildly entertaining, but then again I have my moments of manic megalomania....just kidding. anybody reading this- I know you're very few, if any- you probably won't make it until the end. I pathologically ramble; my ins and outs of conversation annoy even me. but- regardless- please, please, don't write any mean comments. I'm pretty insecure- despite the statement I made above about how entertaining I am.

lately, I've been going through this whole existential dilemma, what to do with my life; you know, career, marriage, ya-da-ya-da-ya-da. and having all the symptoms of a histrionic female (if it walks like a duck...), I've cried every day for the past week. it's mostly been about the whole marriage angle of growing up, a process with which I find myself constantly confronted. I'm only 22, but it seems like nearly all my friends are getting married, and this freaks me out. I never wanted to be the middle-aged bride; I mean, I wish I could be OK with free-lancing it on the stag scene, but I'm phobic and insecure. they're my fatal flaws....seriously: they're killer. I really am having a good time exploring the wild jungles of "dating"; everytime I'm with somebody new, I find a new little part of me- a mask, in the non-superfical sense- to be with that person. maybe that's why I always seem to get hurt; I get introspective over every little thing and call it fate. OK, OK, back to the subject. focus, Emma, focus! so I'm self-pitying and soul-searching all over the place, everything's looking a little "woe-is-me", but yesterday, I felt strangely absolved. how? no idea. wait- there I go again- getting caught up in a side note. back to the point: novelty is a kick-ass aphrodesiac, but there's only so long those feel-so-right itches can last, no?
but I went to church this morning (like the good girl I am [sometimes]), and I had a breakthrough, my dreams of becoming a Protestant nun, renewed. then I came home, wrote a bit about my new resolve, then flicked on the TV to relax. but- drat it all! foiled again. so there I was, sans habot, debating over which identity I'd be able to pull off: pre- or post-Jesus Mary Magdalene, whore or disciple? then I watched this chichi movie "Kissing a Fool" (all right, all right, not "chichi"- I just wanted to use the word, but the movie was definitely cool.) it was about a heart-broken writer who's just been dumped by his hot, hot girlfriend, who hooks up his best-friend- a Chicago sportscaster- with his boss- a beautiful editor. of course, the plot is somewhat predictable for a romantic comedy: the writer, our protagonist, discovers he loves the lovely editor, only after he's already instigated a serious relationship between her and his best friend. a series of comical scenes ensue, and the hero ends up with his girl in the end. but what was weird about it, was that I identified with every one of the characters, all of whom, in one part of the movie or another, were lonely (a familiar sentiment) and looking for love, which I may or may not be ready to do. the whole time, I completely identified with the protagonist: yeah, he was a writer- I like to write- but more importantly, he was a heart-broken mope who fell in love with being in love. then there was the sportscaster, who was a dead-sexy STUD...kind-of. the character was played by David Schwimmer; I have a thing for tall guys with dark hair and- every once in a while- they're white. cute, yes; maybe even handsome. but what qualified him for the dead-sexy category was the fact that he was a Cubs fan--- oh! but wait!...he was a Cubs fan AND a slut. WHOA, BOY!!! A GRAND SLAM! this is the very trait that bound me to him (which sounds great, on so many levels!) he was definitely not "marriage material", much like me. I personally don't care for using the term "slut" to describe myself; I just really like guys, all features included (wink, wink). but I tend to categorize myself as such. anyway, I was optimistic today, and it was only as such that I was able to identify with the girl. reason number one: I'm a girl. reason two: before she got set up with the first guy, she was desperately lonely, and reason three: she was- at the end- confused and conflicted. what kept me from being her, and- ironically- why I even care to be her at all, was that I could tell she was mostly "good" girl (she kept her legs tightly crossed) but knew how to rock it, a la soft-core porn, at the appropriate time AND her fat/body weight ratio was only like 2%. hence, I can only dream of being her, but...maybe, someday (with the right kind of medication, of course). I wrote a whole lot, I've editted out a few pages- believe it or not- which took me a LONG time, and what have I got to show for it? not a lot. if you read this long, I'm impressed! thank you very much and I'd like to stress the above statement: please don't write anything negative.

22 needles in my eye
tomorrow is Canada Day, and also my 22nd birthday. I had a minor quarter-life crisis when I turned 20-- cried for days. my 21st birthday was met with no emotion; I was glad to be admitted to bars without a fake ID, but I was exhilirated, as I think is the customary reaction to turning 21. now 22 is here. the dreaded 2 - 2. even as I write this, I'm pissing myself off already; 22 is by no stretch of the imagination old- and I have a pretty stretchable imagination. I griped about this whole sad state to the Japanese Mormon-- first let me explain who such a creature is- he has been the object of my affection/obsession for like the past year to three- even though it may not sound like such a long time and- given- my indecisive nature, I played out in my mind as fated. and I thought he felt in a roughly equivalent way, erroneously, of course. I had assumed the facts that he never got any action and that he is attractive indicated that he was holding out for at least the outline of that Special One, a form which he thought I fit. I mean, I knew I wasn't his "Soulmate" or his "One and Only", but I figured that maybe if I could dupe him long enough, things would work out. I don't know, I needed to doodle somebody's name on my paper during class, so why not his? but, inevitably, I was foiled again (story of my life). he met some rat-faced girl at the bookstore, this followed that, and he told me that he didn't think we should "hook-up anymore". anyway, turns out that this new girlfriend was 22. so, tongue-in-cheek, I wrote him an email a month or so ago, lamenting the loss of my youth when I turned 22. but now I realize 22 isn't as "hot" of an age as 21. in a bar- for example- you tell a guy you're 21 and he's thinking, "virgin", which obviously makes you more appealing. but does 22 have the same affect? I just don't know. plus, I'm scared of dying. I know, I know, every day is 2 steps closer to death, but- I don't know.... I don't think it's the fear of getting older that's killing me; I think it's the fear of not being a kid anymore. when you're young, you can make mistakes and blame it on "folly of youth"; you can screw up and chalk it up to "experience"; "missed opportunities" and "no second chances" are unknown concepts. and it's this I'm afraid of losing. this is all so stupid- I know this intellectually. it's just these feelings, in all their irrational glory, that are so disturbing.