The title is from a Blood Sweat and Tears album, circa 1987, when I was one year old! Anyway. I am sad and I 'almost' smoked a cigarette but I stubbed it out after two hits. Instead I watched a baby video--the Charlie bit me one! Because in my head babies and smoking are related. I am really sad, annoyed, bugged, tired. I tried doing well in the Lit classes but I am so new to academic writing that I got only a B+. Yeah, okay, that isn't bad, but I really needed to do better and then I question if I worked hard enough and a tiny wiggling spot of doubt says- Nope. Every day after the morning class, I would come home and then later after lunch and some reading go for the six o clock one. My friend who got an A stayed in the library all day. She stayed in campus ALL DAY. I get so sweaty and cranky if I do that, that I end up not listening well by the time the evening class rolls to nine o'clock but really, I should have stayed on campus.
I am kind of little worried about the thesis. Of 90 pages, I have exactly 19 pages edited and needing to be still reviewed. I really can't afford another semester which would mean out of my pocket and my pocket isn't really a pocket. It's got a hole through which all my money has magically disappeared. The lease runs out August end and already a new girl has agreed to take the place. She will also buy all my furniture, which is good except I can't believe she will literally substitute my material life. She is in the incoming MFA Fiction class, 2013. She will buy the bed, the chair, the desk, the little lamp and then she will write fiction in my large lovely room. Fucking bitch. Okay, not really.
People are asking about babies. I mean yes, I did think about it and still thinking and I do have the crazy baby obsession but what if after months of real baby making trying, I end up not making one? I can't imagine doing all the treatments. I probably would, but the hormones and worrying about it and the hypochondria would probably send me over the fucking hills. And I can imagine people going nuts if I say, umm, maybe not? Maybe I don't want the treatments. People are going to be so upset that I AM NOT WILLING TO TRY. I think I am going to be upset at me too. Plus I am turning a number --that sounds terrible-- next March and terribler with no baby!! The only consolation I have is my own mum seems all right. She has got this-- it will happen whenever it does, which kind of upsets me and is yet a relief.
I am sad about leaving Boston. I am so happy here. I wasn't lonesome S. But soon I will be. I have also-- to use a trite expression--got used to having my cake and eating it too! I love alone time so much.
I love being a sloth, a slob and naked and examining fat in the mirror, analyzing triple chins, eating in bed and leaving crumbs and if no hanky--wiping my face in my pillow case and eating two eggs in a single day without feeling guilty and coming home and not washing my hands and feet and plopping on the bed and hogging the blanket and sleeping with a pillow on each side and waking up and dig my nose patiently or fervently--depends-- and not sharing a bathroom!! I am not saying the better half frowns on all this, he is almost an equal slob, and so saying all this makes me feel terrible and then superstitious issues come up.
Because somehow I am so wired to believing in terrible act cum thought leads to terrible consequence/ punishment that I can't help think whoever is doling out punishments will make me actually alone! You know what I am saying?
I am crazy! I am crazy for thinking all this. Well, most of it. I also have such a long way to go before applying for a Phd, and that is depressing because even though I know how to get there, I am sad it's going to take so fucking long. Meanwhile all fellow MFA'ers are fervidly working on their novel. They are all so optimistic! I need some of that. Somedays, I am willing to believe there is a point in writing this book and ignoring the fact that almost half the population is writing a novel.
You know what's funny? The number of people in the past years who have said to me : You should write about my life! I have fucking lived THE LIFE. Isn't it crazy how deluded we are? Like Anne Lamott said, The biggest mistake we make is in thinking that everything that happened to us is interesting.
Really, it's not. Everyone has had a heart broken, almost everyone has lied, many have cheated. Many have been submitted to crazy parenting, so many are depressed, and so many will continue to lie, cheat and live. What's the point. Stripped down we are all the same. Almost ie.
Land of cynicism.
Atleast I am talking to my father again after two and half months. I had to make the first move. It's silly I thought, and you know what made me? You want to know how I made myself make the 'move'? I figured in all likelihood he would die first. I am selfish, the first thought that comes to mind when I think of his death is me. My selfish thought as a child, what will happen to me? And then two of my friend's fathers passed away, suddenly, just like that and that send me into a panic mode. None of us were talking to him. Not my mum or my sister. The only person who was calling him was my husband and I am grateful for that. The thought that my father might die all alone,with no one to talk to was unbearable.
And so I said, Hi, I miss you and then he said: How can you miss me, when you are in my heart all the time.
My father, he has the words, the moves.
I am glad I let that one go.
I am kind of little worried about the thesis. Of 90 pages, I have exactly 19 pages edited and needing to be still reviewed. I really can't afford another semester which would mean out of my pocket and my pocket isn't really a pocket. It's got a hole through which all my money has magically disappeared. The lease runs out August end and already a new girl has agreed to take the place. She will also buy all my furniture, which is good except I can't believe she will literally substitute my material life. She is in the incoming MFA Fiction class, 2013. She will buy the bed, the chair, the desk, the little lamp and then she will write fiction in my large lovely room. Fucking bitch. Okay, not really.
People are asking about babies. I mean yes, I did think about it and still thinking and I do have the crazy baby obsession but what if after months of real baby making trying, I end up not making one? I can't imagine doing all the treatments. I probably would, but the hormones and worrying about it and the hypochondria would probably send me over the fucking hills. And I can imagine people going nuts if I say, umm, maybe not? Maybe I don't want the treatments. People are going to be so upset that I AM NOT WILLING TO TRY. I think I am going to be upset at me too. Plus I am turning a number --that sounds terrible-- next March and terribler with no baby!! The only consolation I have is my own mum seems all right. She has got this-- it will happen whenever it does, which kind of upsets me and is yet a relief.
I am sad about leaving Boston. I am so happy here. I wasn't lonesome S. But soon I will be. I have also-- to use a trite expression--got used to having my cake and eating it too! I love alone time so much.
I love being a sloth, a slob and naked and examining fat in the mirror, analyzing triple chins, eating in bed and leaving crumbs and if no hanky--wiping my face in my pillow case and eating two eggs in a single day without feeling guilty and coming home and not washing my hands and feet and plopping on the bed and hogging the blanket and sleeping with a pillow on each side and waking up and dig my nose patiently or fervently--depends-- and not sharing a bathroom!! I am not saying the better half frowns on all this, he is almost an equal slob, and so saying all this makes me feel terrible and then superstitious issues come up.
Because somehow I am so wired to believing in terrible act cum thought leads to terrible consequence/ punishment that I can't help think whoever is doling out punishments will make me actually alone! You know what I am saying?
I am crazy! I am crazy for thinking all this. Well, most of it. I also have such a long way to go before applying for a Phd, and that is depressing because even though I know how to get there, I am sad it's going to take so fucking long. Meanwhile all fellow MFA'ers are fervidly working on their novel. They are all so optimistic! I need some of that. Somedays, I am willing to believe there is a point in writing this book and ignoring the fact that almost half the population is writing a novel.
You know what's funny? The number of people in the past years who have said to me : You should write about my life! I have fucking lived THE LIFE. Isn't it crazy how deluded we are? Like Anne Lamott said, The biggest mistake we make is in thinking that everything that happened to us is interesting.
Really, it's not. Everyone has had a heart broken, almost everyone has lied, many have cheated. Many have been submitted to crazy parenting, so many are depressed, and so many will continue to lie, cheat and live. What's the point. Stripped down we are all the same. Almost ie.
Land of cynicism.
Atleast I am talking to my father again after two and half months. I had to make the first move. It's silly I thought, and you know what made me? You want to know how I made myself make the 'move'? I figured in all likelihood he would die first. I am selfish, the first thought that comes to mind when I think of his death is me. My selfish thought as a child, what will happen to me? And then two of my friend's fathers passed away, suddenly, just like that and that send me into a panic mode. None of us were talking to him. Not my mum or my sister. The only person who was calling him was my husband and I am grateful for that. The thought that my father might die all alone,with no one to talk to was unbearable.
And so I said, Hi, I miss you and then he said: How can you miss me, when you are in my heart all the time.
My father, he has the words, the moves.
I am glad I let that one go.
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