A warning: I have been talking crazy today, and I probably still am. I can't even tell. See, last night, Jana came over and suggested that we play the She's the Man drinking game, which she made up on her way over. The rules? Drink every time you think Amanda Bynes is hot. Suffice it to say that we all got drunk before the big game scene even started. After Jana left, we contemplated settling down, then ended up fucking in a place I'd only dreamt of even seeing before this year. Marshall makes my dreams come true, no doubt about it. I barely slept, and had cramps all night, but had to show up for humanities, so I got wired on No-Doz and that's when I started behaving like a lunatic. My body feels spent - I couldn't even shower because I knew I'd pass out in the tub - but my mind is frantic, and I'm unbearably talkative. I just engaged Belly in a one-way conversation about the ending of Book 7. And then Kara sent me the first 495 pages of Book 7, and it's right there and I want to read it but I'm not letting myself. Not yet, anyway, because these are the last few days before the canon's set in stone, and I want to spend this time speculating and worrying and daydreaming. I want to read fanfiction and I want to theorize and I want a sense of ceremony about all of it. That said, waiting's not going to be easy, with temptation already downloaded to my desktop.
Lori comes back from Cambridge tomorrow. Tomorrow. I feel like we just moved in last weekend; there are still boxes I never got around to unpacking. Luckily, Lori's taking off again for Provincetown with her girlfriend, so we're not moving out until Saturday. Still, I have been cleaning like a madwoman all afternoon, when not consoling Belly, who is terrified of the storm outside. Jana came by today and we made lists and plans for self-improvement. She told me how she'd manifested Rick Chess in the swimming pool today, prompting me to watch the mindmovie I made for myself earlier in the summer, prompting me to dance around the house whilst vacuuming. It was a true Mrs. Doubtfire moment for me, and I'm glad there were no witnesses. Unless you count Belly, but she's not even fazed by my outbursts anymore; we're too used to each other.
My brother had a root canal today and is currently all doped-up. I love Dr. Subramanian beyond all reason, but someone needs to explain to the man that dimming the lights and playing a five-part NPR special on apartheid (however interesting and inspiring) does not exactly constitute a "multimedia extravaganza." Neither does showing us The Emperor's Club, although he definitely gets points for showing us a movie about inspiring teaching at an all-male prep school, which is a favorite genre of mine. I read Winesburg, Ohio last week and enjoyed it far more than I expected to; I only wish I could write fiction. Or poetry, come to think of it, since I still haven't made headway on my Poetics work. I turn 21 in two weeks, and I feel older than I've got a right to, but I can't tell whether I'm growing up or just growing jaded. Sometimes, I recognize my epiphanies as things my mother's always known, and it worries me. I don't know. I'm happy, but haven't quite got a claim to it, not yet.
I need to talk to someone at OurVoice finally, is what I'm starting to realize. This morning, I had a flash of the old Jason nightmares, only instead of lying still and bearing it, I kicked him, in the face, over and over again, and woke up kicking at the sheets. It felt good, much better than it should have. I've stopped talking about it to everyone, by this point, but it still dominates my thoughts and there's no winning, whether I'm angry or hurt or distant for all my memories. I'm lucky to be doing as well as I am, to feel safe and open and adored so much of the time, but I still have these moments where I panic, where I remember too much at the worst times and get to feeling like a broken person again. And if I'm not going to seek help for my own sake, I need to do it for Marshall, because she deserves someone who is brave and unafraid and whole, and I haven't been that in ages. So tomorrow, I'm going to call OurVoice, or go by if I can work up the courage, and I'm going to tell someone the whole sad story, all the details even Sal doesn 't know about, and then I'm going to set to work on a new story, one where I can move on. I mean, it has to happen, right?
It's raining outside my window, but not on the other side of the house. I'm listening to Feist and waiting on the final installment of one of my favorite Harry/Snape fics ever and talking myself up for some serious disclosure tomorrow. Until then, I want to sip iced tea and read Chuck Klosterman's new book and make big plans, because soon, I'm going to be so much better. Promise.
Lori comes back from Cambridge tomorrow. Tomorrow. I feel like we just moved in last weekend; there are still boxes I never got around to unpacking. Luckily, Lori's taking off again for Provincetown with her girlfriend, so we're not moving out until Saturday. Still, I have been cleaning like a madwoman all afternoon, when not consoling Belly, who is terrified of the storm outside. Jana came by today and we made lists and plans for self-improvement. She told me how she'd manifested Rick Chess in the swimming pool today, prompting me to watch the mindmovie I made for myself earlier in the summer, prompting me to dance around the house whilst vacuuming. It was a true Mrs. Doubtfire moment for me, and I'm glad there were no witnesses. Unless you count Belly, but she's not even fazed by my outbursts anymore; we're too used to each other.
My brother had a root canal today and is currently all doped-up. I love Dr. Subramanian beyond all reason, but someone needs to explain to the man that dimming the lights and playing a five-part NPR special on apartheid (however interesting and inspiring) does not exactly constitute a "multimedia extravaganza." Neither does showing us The Emperor's Club, although he definitely gets points for showing us a movie about inspiring teaching at an all-male prep school, which is a favorite genre of mine. I read Winesburg, Ohio last week and enjoyed it far more than I expected to; I only wish I could write fiction. Or poetry, come to think of it, since I still haven't made headway on my Poetics work. I turn 21 in two weeks, and I feel older than I've got a right to, but I can't tell whether I'm growing up or just growing jaded. Sometimes, I recognize my epiphanies as things my mother's always known, and it worries me. I don't know. I'm happy, but haven't quite got a claim to it, not yet.
I need to talk to someone at OurVoice finally, is what I'm starting to realize. This morning, I had a flash of the old Jason nightmares, only instead of lying still and bearing it, I kicked him, in the face, over and over again, and woke up kicking at the sheets. It felt good, much better than it should have. I've stopped talking about it to everyone, by this point, but it still dominates my thoughts and there's no winning, whether I'm angry or hurt or distant for all my memories. I'm lucky to be doing as well as I am, to feel safe and open and adored so much of the time, but I still have these moments where I panic, where I remember too much at the worst times and get to feeling like a broken person again. And if I'm not going to seek help for my own sake, I need to do it for Marshall, because she deserves someone who is brave and unafraid and whole, and I haven't been that in ages. So tomorrow, I'm going to call OurVoice, or go by if I can work up the courage, and I'm going to tell someone the whole sad story, all the details even Sal doesn 't know about, and then I'm going to set to work on a new story, one where I can move on. I mean, it has to happen, right?
It's raining outside my window, but not on the other side of the house. I'm listening to Feist and waiting on the final installment of one of my favorite Harry/Snape fics ever and talking myself up for some serious disclosure tomorrow. Until then, I want to sip iced tea and read Chuck Klosterman's new book and make big plans, because soon, I'm going to be so much better. Promise.
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