agog

agog: very eager or curious to hear or see something

I get in these antsy moods, where I can't listen through the entirety of a song and just keeping skipping over every single one. "Oooh this one's good. nope, skip it. Skip. Skip. Skip."  I would blame all the punk rock I listen too, seeing that songs longer than 2 minutes are a near abomination, but I know better.  I'm agog, impatient, anxious for something. What, I don't know. I'm in one of those moods. meh. question is, how long will it last?

thanks in large part to my current mood, this morning, I woke up antsy at 3am and finally fell back to sleep at 6 or so, but then slept through my alarm and was late to my Chem class. Stupid of me. I was late for my midterm and suffered for it. Test corrections, office hours, and being five minutes early to every class in order to get an A here I come! Not preferable, but I'll do what needs to be done.

Okay, okay, okay. I am trying for the life of me to get my thesis research done but...my thesis is on CMC and gender in social networking technology.  Long story short, I spend a ton of time in front of the little lighted box they call a computer. My head is about to explode if I have to spend one more second on Facebook. Unfortunately, I must push on.

This is what I want, I want some one to "accidentally" break my computer and then for me to get sick so I don't have to look at this damn laptop any longer and so that I have an excuse to feel like crap and sleep all day...and drink chicken noodle soup and eat grilled cheese with pickles.

p.s. as I'm writing this, my sister just sent me the best e-mail ever...

The assignment was to draw what they wanted to be when they grew up. After the picture was graded, the the child brought it home and then returned to school the next day with the following note from her Mommy (totally something that would happen to my sister too):  

Dear Ms. Davis,

I want to be very clear on my child's illustration.  It is NOT of me on a dance pole on a stage in a strip joint.  I work at Home Depot and had commented to my daughter how much money we made in the recent snowstorm.  This photo is of me selling a shovel.

oh! speaking of mommies, mine came down to visit me this past weekend and we went skiing at ski bowl. the snow was so amazing. Thick and fluffy enough that you could see its 3-dimensional shape :)

can of worms

to open a can of worms: to inadvertently create numerous new problems while trying to solve an older one. Experts disagree on the origin of the phrase, but it is generally believed to be a Canadian or American metaphor coined sometime in the 1950s. Bait stores routinely sold cans of worms and other popular live baits to fishermen, who often discovered how easy it was to open a can of worms and how difficult it was to close one. Once the worms discovered an opportunity to escape, it became nearly impossible to keep them contained. Sort of like Pandora's Box. (wisegeek.com)


Feels as if I have three or four cans of worms open right now. Bull grunt. Wish I knew how to close them.


My scars are itchy and scabbed over in large part from trying to close all these cans of worms!


Practice was brutal this week.  We did a lot of hitting drills and pace lines.  I had a glorious hip-check, knocked a girl right off the track onto her butt! He he. Seriously, those two hours are the only hours in which I can immerse myself and think of nothing else.  It's nice...more than nice actually.

Thursday night was icky. Exhaustion was all I could feel, but Nick called and we went and got some doughnuts at Sesame.  I'm a fan of any place open 24-hours...especially when it has the world's greatest chocolate-glazed doughnut holes, 15 for less than $1.75

not my mini van, I promise.

Earlier last week, I bought Jeff Ely (my computer science professor) doughnuts from Sesame as a thank you for the innumerable letters of recommendation he has written for me.  We shared a wonderful moment, eating doughnuts with a fellow connoisseur.

the Sid's Special on top

As for now, I've got a lot of work to do. Namely, I need to get ready to present my paper/thesis at both the Gender Symposium and a Comm conference.  I'm also scrambling to start my full-time practicum at Roosevelt High School on Tuesday.  I've already been working with students there, preparing for a Mock Trial Competition, but I'm excited to spend more time in the classroom with them.

so here's to those can of worms closing on their own. fingers crossed.

let's just say...

that was the weirdest Valentine's Day yet.

I got three cards, one from Jen w/a picture of Beck on it and the correct spelling of my name, and two from my mom...I mean one from my mom with Strawberry Shortcake stickers which I discovered are sadly not scratch-and-sniff, and one from my dog "Chicken" back home (I call her Chicken because she's afraid of everything, 80lbs of timid)

You can see my skate wrench near the top.  That's a nice touch.  he he.

Correct spelling of my name. It's got an apostrophe and everything. Silly.

Well that's all normal.  It was the waking up to a text at 6:30am from the last possible person I could ever imagine that was weird.  So Happy Fucking Valentine's Day.

brooding

brood: to sit upon (eggs) in order to hatch, to dwell on a subject, to meditate with morbid persistence, or to worry persistently

"I don't think she ever knew that a deep-brooding love hung over everything she touched"- Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

oh the things I do when I can't sleep...make pancakes, talk to Nick when he calls at 1 am and feel briefly better, listen to really loud music (it only works if you can feel it shaking your entire being), watch Fargo and then let my morbidity take over, enough at least to write the following prose.

The alarm clock stabs at my ear drums. 5:30am. The dark blue of the morning seeps in through the blinds.  I open both my eyes just barely, like two slivered almonds on the mask of my face.  I peer down at my ankle and follow my leg up to the crook of my hip.  Another bruise.  Another morning, another bruise.  It's been a year now and the more matured ones have started to heal, bleeding back from their purple-black color into a more jaundiced yellow.  But my entire left leg still looks like an over-ripened banana, freckled with innumerable bruise. I stumble over to the dresser and fumbled through the deep drawer of socks and stockings.  I settle upon a pair of navy blue poke-a-dot tights.  Slowly, I roll them over my leg.  First the toe, then the ankle, then the bruises.  It's like driving a steam roller over a mine-field, you never know which one is going to hurt the most.  This morning it's the little one on the center on my shin, the last of three lined up in a row, three dime-sized spots of hell.  It stings at first, but then a familiar euphoria takes its place.  There's a thin line between pain and pleasure.  Some days, I fantasize about amputation, I just haven't convinced myself yet that life with only one leg would be any better.  So I leave it, and I suffer through an indescribable amount of pain.  I have no explanation for their genesis, they just appear. My only rationalization is that they're there to remind me how fucked in the head I can be, how pathetic it is that, just like my bruises, I can't escape thoughts of you without cutting off a crucial part of myself.  As one heals, another appears.  Everything seems like it's my fucking fault.

hooray for creative writing.

update: okay, apparently I need to make something more clear, because right now my family thinks I've completely lost my marbles.  The above creative writing piece is just that, a creative writing piece.  Apart from the few bruises that I have gotten from roller derby, my legs are not covered in bruises.  The bruises are a metaphor for the character in this story's emotional state.  This is how I deal with the normal ups and downs of life and with my occasional bought of depression. I write and write and write some more.  I mean, I also workout a lot and hit girls while on skates and listen to music and make pancakes, but for the most part, writing is the way in which I deal with things. I am an intense person and intense people need outlets, this is mine.  So please, family and loved ones, quit worrying about me.  And for the love of god quit taking the things I say in my poems and stories literally. I'm fine.

We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.

"We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing": lucid and beautiful quote by Charles Bukowski

"You built up that wall around you, And now you can't see out, And now you can't hear my words, No matter how loud I shout, It's like screaming at a wall, Someday it's gonna fall": two words- Minor, Threat.

just when I finally think that maybe I've begun to heal, you come along and back to square one. please, tell me what to do. I'm at a loss for ideas. Frustrated, I've decided to write out all the things I could possibly say on little pieces of notebook paper, mix them up, pick one out of a hat, and go with whatever it says.

I could say:
silence.
who is this/gee wonder who this could be?
no, you are mistaken.  I asked if I should delete your number, and you replied,"I already deleted yours days ago."
this is suspicious.
am I imagining things?
fuck. you.
is this a trap?
woah, must be one boring Friday night.
did your x-box break?
did you run out of adderall?
PTSD acting up again?
(I deleted this one because it's too caustic)
hold that thought. I'll be in Boise in March, if you still feel like you want to "say hi," text me then (this way I can punch him in person)
what do you want from me? honestly.

There are so many people in my life that are going to be pissed off that I'm even giving this any thought. Oh what to do.

Update 10:32am: picked one, typed a text even. It's sitting on my phone, ready to go and has been for about 35 minutes now. I'm having the hardest time pressing send.

Update 10:33am: sent it. there's something evil lurking in the pit of stomach. I think I'm going to puke.

Update 2/13/11: I just want my heart back. What the fuck does "start talking again" mean? Oh wait, that means you want me in your life on your terms.  Once again, I hate to admit it, but I'm not strong enough to do that.

Update 2/13/11 3pm: :'(

on my mind...

I spoke with Peter on Facebook this morning.  In a nutshell, this is what we talked about. And then we spent sometime discussing my decisions to go to grad school and to join the Air Force.  Peter reminded me to take each step of my life with bold intention. Not often, but sometimes I forget.

Every chat I have with Peter renews my substance, grounds me.  Here's the thing, Peter is a pirate...a guitar playing, law-defending, burning-man participating, joke-cracking, brazen pirate.  He's the other-half of my aunt Muriel (she's not actually an aunt, but out of my large collection of "pseudo-aunts," she is perhaps the one I adore and respect the most).  Together, they make up two quality people...that I look up to with all my heart.  And as Peter said himself,


"Just want bright lights to stay bright, lord knows we need them."

side note: Sir Ken Robinson (the narrator of the video Peter and I were talking about), has a great story about kids and their life insights ( http://www.ted.com/talks/ken_robinson_says_schools_kill_creativity.html the story starts at 3:35). A girl is drawing during an art lesson and her teacher asks her what she's drawing, she replies, "god." The teacher says, "but no one knows what god looks like." The girl responds, "they will in a minute." ha! Kids are so introspective if you allow them to be.  Recently, I was playing Slap Jack with Sasha, the 5-year-old I nanny, when she started talking about how unfair loosing was.  I told her that life is not about winning and then we talked about the purpose of human life and she said that life seems too unfair to live some days.  Isn't that true.  I agreed with her, then we brainstormed all the reasons life is worth living.  It was the deepest conversation I've ever had about mortality, and it was with a five-year-old!

to step on another's toes

to step on another's toes:  to offend or insult someone, as if causing physical pain.

I'm supposed to be NSOing at Wednesday night's scrimmage right now, but meh. I have a headache. So I'm being lame and hibernating in my cave.  I've decided to blog...you, know, to look right at a bright computer screen that's just making my headache ten-fold worse. How smart, I am.  Anyhow, today in step aerobics we cooled down to this song:



I'm a fan. I also adore adore adore her dress.

so answer me this, anyone and everyone, "who do you think you are?"  Have you ever considered the damage you've done to others? The hearts broken, the toes trampled on, the spirits crushed. 

I remember, it must have been my junior year of high school, coming into chemistry ready to work on my lab and vent pent up cynicism to my wonderful and dear friend Desiree.  Instead, I was met with "fuck you."  I had no idea why she was pissed at me, but "fuck" and "you" were the only two words she would say to me.  And, trust me, you need a bigger vocabulary in order to do any sort of scientific work.  I was completely, entirely, utterly oblivious. What had I done? Why was she mad, and mad at me alone? Needless to say, we did not pass that lab.  Had I been more conscious of the ways in which I effect others, we would have passed that damn lab.  Just something to think about.

to get one's ears lowered

to get one's ears lowered: slang for hair cut

I haven't cut my hair since May
the length has always been a measure of something in my life
this time it's of pain
of the pain that was impressed upon me in your absence
of pain that slowly clamps down on my brain
of pain that throbs in my temples every day
duh dun
duh dun
I ignore it the best I can,
patiently waiting for it to go away
waiting to regain some semblance of sanity

the day I don't think about you is the day I cut my hair

your brain is blank
your head is bald
you have no measure of pain,
just forgotten memories
just that one quite moment when you feel like an ass and then shrug your shoulders
and say tough luck
I was just a speed bump
just an after thought in your pathetic attempt to justify life and the way you waste it
it's people like you who make life for me one constant struggle

I just want you to leave me the fuck alone, get out of my head, erase you from my every other thought
and besides, I'm in desperate need of a hair cut

update 2/8/11 12:19pm: next time, remind me to eat breakfast before I blog. I'd seem a lot more chipper and less self-involved and depressed. food first, then blog. hey on a more positive note that gnarly rink-rash that I got on the palm of my had last scrimmage is finally healing...almost two weeks later and it finally decided to start the healing process. It's taking its sweet time...as all my wounds do.

twiddle one's thumbs

twiddle one's thumbs: to pass the time by twirling one's thumbs, to wait or idle.

I have officially finished all my applications to the rest of my life (i.e. grad schools and the Air Force). Big huge sigh of relief. ahhhhhh.

Now all I need to do is sit and wait, wait till April, then May, then June 2nd to hear back and then formulate the plan that will be my life. What a weird place to be in. Sitting her twiddling my thumbs.