Wicked!

Random placeholder post. Hi. I'm alive. Really. Barely. But really.

Can't be arsed to post over there. I suppose I can't think of anything snappy to say.

Got an outline to write for tomorrow.

I think I'm going to fail this test. Hold on while I stumble into a corner and throw up.

It's completely over. We're not even friends anymore. I should have seen that coming, I guess.

The thing is that I'm not even mourning. The dream said I'd know by the first snowfall, and I know.

. . .

I've strayed from who I am in a lot of ways. Why does that keep happening?

. . .

Will probably keep my nose in my work this week. Feel free to contact me, but realize that I'm preoccupied with fiction.

...that, even in the theoretical, it's goddamn WRONG to insist that pedophiles and rapists be considered even REMOTELY human.

###

So, I went to the party last night. Aside from kicking Josh's ass at DDR (in full crinoline and bodice), I wish I'd stayed home. The whole thing opened up the old "omg, i am intelligent and men only want cheap sluts" wound. The two attractive guys in the room -- yep, folks, I actually looked at someone younger than 30! -- kept grinding with the girls who looked like... no, "hookers" is too kind a term.

Like my mum said, if you have to look as if you're selling yourself, can't you make yourself look expensive?

I felt like a freak.

There is something seriously wrong with me if I can't even fit in around people my age. I'm more at home around Tina et al than around the people I go to school with. The men are too stupid and the women are either freaks like me or, well, cheap. Do you know who asked me out last night? The guy who couldn't understand that I loved reading challenging material outside of class.

Which, hello, not going to happen. Not only am I the love child of Kara Thrace, Severus Snape, and a Dalek, but I'm also the reincarnation of Charles Emerson Winchester the Third. *headdesk*

So yes, Linus, you WERE wrong. I did NOT have fun. Right now, all I want to do is curl up on my sofa and cry, because once again, I'm reminded of how weird I am, and how low the chances are that I'll ever find people who understand.

Bastards all.

Every night, I look at my sets of little orange bottles, count the pills, and wonder how many I'd have to wash down with how many Mimosas not to mind dying of suffocation via plastic bag.

ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit.

I should never have opened my mouth. Ever. Oh, HELL.

I've uploaded two samples of my, er, talent.

Enjoy.

Autumn Leaves

Canta Per Me

What's up?

-- I like my body, but it's wrong that I do. I'm not supposed to want to be thin. People on my LJ flist jumped on me because I thought the Madrid modeling restrictions were ridiculous. Yeah, so much for putting an end to thinphobia. You know, I'd be called an anti-feminist bigot if I suddenly stopped finding curves beautiful as well as a lack thereof. I don't see why the reverse isn't true.
-- I dislike a member of my friends group at school, but it's wrong that I do. Everyone else puts up with her, so why can't I? Everywhere I go, she's fucking something up for me. Then she can't even be arsed to show up to the first club meeting of the year but she's allowed to lecture me about my officer duties?
-- Feeling more of a desire than ever for a nice, stable, secure person with whom to share my life. Under-30s need not apply. Likewise devout fundamentalists of any stripe.

Two weeks into the semester and I'm snapping at everyone. What is wrong with me?

I wrote a tirade last night. I flocked it before anyone from MCC actually got to comment. Nate, if you want to see it, email me and I'll send you a copy.

I'm angry about everything these days. About her, about the new modeling standards in Madrid... even my mother's insensitivity pissed me off.

I wouldn't blame anyone for just going away. I know I'm not easy to be around. Being sick isn't an excuse. Loads of other people juggle PTSD and a bad temper.

How many languages can you speak?  Which languages can you read or understand?

I speak English, a bit of German, a bit of French, and a bit of Arabic. I can actually read Arabic script, at least until it gets all flowery and loopy and wot.