I realize why I have been working so much this summer: to avoid my own problems. Effexor, Coumadin, Percocet, Vicodin. For people, they become dependent on these pills, erupting at the thought of waiting for a doctor to call back for refill authorizations and spitting cusses when we catch a suspicious prescription. I have always been the bearer of bad news, although at work, I find myself more of a normal person, who usually finds herself doing a good when a patient drops off and picks up his or her medication within the same day. At work, I don't feel as much as the Devil. For the most part, I control things. For the most part, I take and give.
I don't have a best friend anymore. I can't find anyone that I truly like. I lost my scholarship. I could get fired if I ever oversleep again, which probably will happen. Arlene and I are rocky because she says she is jealous of me even though i have absolutely no idea what she could be envious about, but she assures me that I will never know how she feels. I wasn't satisifed with Derrick yet I miss his company at the same time. I gave Jimmy a trial run and got scared.
I am back to square one, wanting the school year to begin so I can just focus on school and start with a clean slate once again.
I'm starting to think heels and pretty footwear should just be bought, left in their boxes and only taken out to stare out when one is feeling gloomy. (Almost the same goes to the fashion that is "in", which is low cut shirts that make me wonder if indecency has dropped its prefix.) Samantha made me buy two pairs of high heel boots. I wore the brown pair to school two days about and when I finally came home and took them off, my feet felt as if they naturally had a 45 degree arch. I had at least five scares of nearly tripping down stairs and even on the sidewalk. Samantha boasts that she saved me money, since both pairs were on sale, but I know that with her, I wouldn't have even bought them. What am I to do with them?
I pass time by going on Neopets. I get frustrated each and every day as I come home and try passwords for my old account, which was very well off. Pathetic how resentful I feel since the staff never answered my enquiry and never sent my password those times I requested it. I hate starting anew.
I'll be having a hard time in acrylics. Mrs. Cappell is seemingly cool; she did abstract art at Princeton. But she's anal. She has to have it her way. She'll hate me.
I feel fucked up. Maybe it was another bad decision but I have always been bad with breaking up. Surely afterward, I'd feel all emotional and crap. Things run through my mind like: I still miss him. A lot. But I can't tell him. What is done is done and I no longer want to play tug-of-war with the past once again.
You sure?
I'm antsy for school. There, I tend to forget he even existed. Poetry workshops again for next term, goodie, except I haven't seen Ms. Moore for the whole term and I think that's bad.
Two days of shopping are ahead of me. Sweet.
Pieces on your manicured floor
the shattered cranberry window glass
by an airborne baseball
airy turbulence
or acid words
that you will learn to leave what is left
left as what is or was
and rather not laid in your hands:
if it were to be fragile
it would want to be fragile alone.
Everyone in the workshop is so hardcore about journalism when I thought I was. I know no name of a journalist, hence, I don't idolize one as many of girls did. I never wrote articles about ethnic dillemas, never studied women history, never interviewed anyone for an article. I'm just a poetry and prose person; I just thought that journalism would be a better name for what I did, but it's not. I told people I wanted to become a journalist because it was writing. It's a whole different genre that I don't even like at all now.
When I was on the 7 coming home at around 7:30PM, I loved how the lights on the roof tops of houses looked, like fixed, permanent, cascading sparks of fireworks.
I didn't want to follow my friend home today and I didn't really want to get off the bus to go to a Dunkin' Donuts. However, for $2.59, Bert (named by us, of course), the cash person, gave me a more than generous single schoop of Express n Cream ice cream. Trust me, I shall always be on the lookout for Bert when my ice cream cravings come around. However, as we were walking home, we came across two men, or just the same man twice (we weren't too sure), peeing behind a tree on the sidewalk. It was disturbing but hilarious how men can't keep their zippers closed. As my friend diverted her eyes to my iPod, faking interest in it, I giggled about as we passed him for the man hid his face from us, probably in shame.
I won another movie ticket off of Blingo again and this time, I'm making sure my mother won't throw our my free winnings when she goes through the mail. (I really encourage you guys all to join. You just use their search engine, which is powered by Google, and you can win things randomly.)
Applying to college is driving me nuts, as any senior or survivor has declared. My confidence is wavering all the time that I don't know what to expect. After visiting a college essay reviewer, my mother wants me to visit all the campuses of the schools I want to go to, which sounds like such a hassle. I have to actually do some studying on the schools so I can talk with the admission officers, not sound stupid and make them remember me when they read my essay. Psh, right.
I tried to get over it, to not huddle it inside of me as if it was a mistake. I tried but all this comes back to haunt me when I have to nod to it-the ultimate shame of affirming. They say that one should never regret. I had stopped living in the past. It just so happens that it still lives on around me. The reason why I am still in this state of mind is because people won't let it die when it should be already left in its grave. It's my past; I should have the right to put an end to it, not others.
I was about to apologize to him, although it might not have meant much to begin with. But now, I find that anger never has closure. There is closure for regret, negligence, the anger that comes from a hard-fallen love but there is no closure for anger anymore in it. No forgiveness. Just a wizened tree of an unspoken contempt only found in the hearts of the bitter.
"Love, like rain, can nourish from above, drenching couples with a soaking joy. But sometimes, under the angry heat of life, love drives on the suface and must nourish from below, tending to its roots, keeping itself alive."
It's is amusing how innocent our family conversations could be sometimes.
Mother: (to my father) Why is it that both of my offspring don't look like me?
Father: Well, they are both yours.
Mother: (looks at me) I see a little in her but Genghis doesn't look at me at all.
Me: (flashes a cheesy smile behind my cup of tea) I'm just more beautiful.
Mother: (laughs) You should be! Later generations always are supposed to be more beautiful than the last. Ah, I know, Genghis has my intelligence.
Father: You're not that smart.
Mother: Excuse me? Daughter, who is smarter, me or your father?
Me: (knowing the right answer) Dad.
Mother: I told you I'm smarter.
Me: Mom, I said Dad.
My mother and my father laugh.
I love going grocery shopping with my father. He would get his own shopping cart and Genghis and I would get ours. We would load up ours with everything we want, which would be every sort of snack food we could chow on. My father would follow my mother's list and then, if we find him, he'll name some items he wanted us to find. It's a scavenger hunt. Today, we would have spent about $130 alone for food but somehow, we saved approximately fifty dollars with my father's Walbaums card.
Today, my mother invited her to our house and she and her other daughter of four years old sat on our leather sofa for hours. My mother amused herself by shuffling to my little brother's room to find some of his stuffed animals for her daughter to play with. Every five mintues I heard my mother ask the girl in the voice a mother would make to her new-born, "Would you like something to drink? CapriSun maybe?" Every five minutes I heard my mother say to Ann, "It's okay. It'll be alright. Don't think about it so much."
Ann's husband had lost his high-paying job as the manager of a restate company and she sat on our sofa, mourning her extravagant shopping sprees and the collection of hats she had at home. Her voice changed as she spoke of her husband, who had been looking for a job for two months. Every night, he would come home from an interview and never receive a phone call back. He couldn't take it anymore and took off for Vegas four days ago, hoping to find some solace in the city of gambling. In addition to their troubles, they had recently bought a house for more than a million dollars, partially on loans. She brings her family to their old house, for the closing date isn't for another half year, where she cooks them dinner because the new house's stoves run on electricity. And soon, they will have to turn on the heat in their new house, which would automatically heat up their whole house. The estimated gas bill for a month at their house is a thousand dollars. I remember all the times I looked at my parents' ConEdison bills and the most I have ever seen them pay was four hundred dollars on the coldest day of last winter.
I always suspect that things happen for a reason. Although I left the keychain on the steps, I wonder if it meant something. Could it be that I should go to Florida? Or maybe that I will meet Death in the jaws of a crocodile?
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