been full of lots of shit this week, and the roaring hasn't petered out yet. fuck.

well at least its not just dead moderation.

shit! two paper revisions, a paper proposal for a ten-page paper, then due in ten days, an application essay that i have to bullshit and make sound honest, by means of analysis and creativity both, which i'm running out of.... then this fucking presentation tomorrow morning and the conference on an old paper when it should be about a new one but i haven't revised it yet!!!

errr i dunno if he'll give me an extension till after spring break. but i bet if i told him what was on my mind he'd give it to me... it's valid...

need to change therapists because by now i'm smart enough to want some responses to my babble...

need to stop thinking of people who... i dunno... can't figure it out... that's part of the problem, i suppose.

i'm kind of screwed. what am i gonna do in two years? everytime i need to do shitloads of work, i become mike. i knew it. katherine didn't believe me when i said i was like mike, but for a degree of sanity he doesn't possess. i lose it myself when i go to work. then she sees, and gets scared, and she's starting to believe me. so much for preserving a residue of decency around here.

well, maybe in two years i'll be doing something that gives me so much peace that it's all i want to fill my life with, and i can forget about the craziness. all i think of is editing and making puppets. editing! i don't need a buzz for it; it comes from inside. it's not something i need to psych myself up for.

but then comes the paper part. the 150+ page research paper. that's plan. i'll have seceded once and for all by then.

what a lovely day! straight from the pages of virginia woolf. (the happy ones.) i'm a little girl again with flowers and a party hat (no joke!). and confetti and a birthday cake :) :) :) and a puppet show at eight :)

i wish tomorrow were not my birthday. i wish that nine o'clock party were not tomorrow, already filling me with luminous memories that will most likely be hideously unmet tomrorow night. So I probably won't go. but i feel like i should, to save my life. but i should stay here, to save my life.

three years today, three months tomorrow, i miss you mother and i miss the days we had together of yellow ribbons in my hair and our photographs on the backporch.

it's all too complicated. why'd i have to feel this. i steeled myself against it; it happened. i kept fighting but was conflagrated and taken by the deluge. the one thing i want more than anything is the summary of all i'd rather do without.

why think? to cease would make it easier. but it would have me follow through, which would lead me back, from my long-forgotten self to desolation.

oh, when i see you my happiness will be in your hands. i don't want that happiness though. maybe you should just take it away; but i know i'm joking; the next time i see you my soul will shine without me and bring me to nestle with the crystalline incandescence of snow in the afternoon, beneath rose-white clouds that caress the bright unshadowed sky, reminding it to touch down and grace us with its clean expanse -- devoid of such polemics.