Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: cats, depression, dirt, empathy, frustration, hopeless, irrational, lethargy, make up, metro, mood disorders, phobia, teenager, worthless
I just yelled at my cat. For someone who thought she’d already hit rock bottom, that was a new low.
My makeup disgusts me. I hate the way it alienates my face. When I wear it I stringently avoid all tactile encounters; I don’t want the makeup to contaminate anything else.
The metro disgusts me. The train makes me feel like a rat being shuttled through a sewer; the grime permeating the buses depreciates my faith in humanity every time I board them. The slight chill at the bus stops seem to rob me of my limited energy, and the mere thought of my hour-long commutes makes me long for the oblivion of sleep.
There’s an unidentifiable hair on my keyboard; that disgusts me too. I’m even eschewing the mouse and the chair: they radiate heat from my brother’s prolonged computer use. Despite the nippy temperature, the warmth is quite unpleasant. It conjures repulsive images of breeding bacterium and sticky, smelly sweat.
But the most disgusting thing is me. Today, I slept twelve hours straight, broke my vow to hit the gym, arrived late to my singing lessons, ate more marshmallow peeps than I care to admit (in addition to a half a dozen girl scout cookies) and generally wasted my life, just like I did yesterday, and the day before that, and every other day of the past few months.
So what do I do to remedy my worthlessness? Augment it, of course.
I came home today, anxious, bemused, exhausted , and on the brink of tears for no discernible reason, only to be confronted by my cat. As usual, he was meowing at his food bowl, notwithstanding the bounty of kibble it contained. Typically I just stand there and meow back until he settles down and starts chowin’, but some dormant demon chose that moment vivify.
“What?!,” I screamed, dumping the kibble on the floor. “What do you want?! You have food, look, right there, look! I’m sorry baby, but I have nothing else to give you!” And I fled to my room, to the safety of my quilts and pillows. But before long, I heard a familiar rustling emanating from the myriad magazines that litter my bedroom. Scratching at them is my cat’s way of announcing his displeasure; he knows this irks me and wins him instant attention/food/aid/etc, anything to make him stop. “What?!,” I cried expelling my quilts to the floor. “What do you want?! I’m never getting another cat! Never getting another cat! Go away! There’s no one here! I’m not here! Gone!” With that I furiously burrowed under my blankets. He just glared at me, before lithely leaping onto my futon and nuzzling my hand, purring. Far from evoking my maternal instincts, this gesture drove me over the edge. I stroked his cheeks, sobbing, “I’m sorry kitty. I’ve let you down. I’ve made you so dependent on me, and now I can’t sustain you. Maybe I should have set you free, let you run feral. Then you could have tended to your own needs, instead of relying on a miserable human. Nature would have provided for you, you would have been happy and free, I’m sorry. I’m so busy, kitty, I’m tired. I’m sorry.”
Monologue concluded, I sprung from my bed, dislodging my poor cat, and locked myself in the bathroom to compose myself. My eyeliner had migrated down my face and onto my collar, joining a tea stain I earned earlier today (my just reward for violating metro’s No Beverage policy.) I felt hot and lightheaded. But I postponed the cold, cleansing shower I craved, because kitty was scratching at the bathroom door. He wanted me to pet him.
There are a thousand thoughts buzzing round my head, but I can’t seem to catch a single one. They taunt me, allowing a shutter-speed glimpse of their contents, never granting the intimate veiw and comprehention I seek. No panoramas today–just vexing little polaroids.
Treading through an ocean of snapshots; that’s my life. And searching for the solid, sandy bottom.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: bus, D.C., depression, hours, insomnia, New York, sleep, transportation, vacation
It’s ten past one in the morning. At 5:15AM, a taxi will arrive so I can make the six o’ clock Greyhound to New York. The drive from D.C. lasts four and a half hours; I plan to spend it sleeping. Last night I could not nod off–some manic electricity had invaded my system. I managed about three hours of zzz’s this afternoon, but I’m still deathly tired. No rest: If I succumb to sleep now, I know I’ll miss my bus. 3 and some hours to go…
Will you stay up and keep me company?
Filed under: Uncategorized
Slept: 12 hrs.
Meds: 2 Focalin, 1 Xanax, 1 Lexapro at 2:45 PM. 1 Xanax at 12:15.
Food: 2 mints, 6 girl scout cookies, small portion of greenbeans and carrots w/ lemon-honey sauce and a handful of peanuts at 1 PM. More greenbeans+carrots w/ white rice, peanuts and mac&cheese at 5:30 PM. 1 marshmallow peep + peanuts at 10:15 PM.
Activity: worked out for 1 hr.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: classmates, freshmen, high school, humor, reminicense, signature, teenager, yearbook
Yesterday, I went looking for my freshman yearbook. For some reason, it wasn’t shelved neatly with all the ones from middle and elementary school. I paused, puzzled–Did I even buy one that year? I tried to conjure a mental image of the cover, an individual page, an individual photo. Nothing.
But then, it all came back in a swift, smothering deluge of memories: Magdelene, the goth girl I’ve known since more innocent times, who accidently dyed her whole head purple with semipermanent haircoloring, which didn’t come out for weeks and stained the white cinderblock wall where she sat in the back of Geometry, Magdalene, rubbing her head against the “autographs” page in place of a signature.
And Patrick and Oscar, the two sophmores I shared a table with, constantly stoned and/or planning to get stoned, dealing weed under the table and between classes, recounting their drunken, debaucherous weekends at the top of their voices, surreptitiously slipping drug references into their art assignments; who further displayed their artistic prowess by decorating my yearbook with phallus and condom related doodles, accompanied with the counsel “stay safe use protection,” the duo I shall forever thank for introducing me to drugs.
And Kristin, the plump social outcast whom I befriended out of pity (much to my chagrin), who immediately seized my yearbook and corrected all the captions on the Colorguard page where she had been mislabled as “Christen,” vigorously marking out the errors with the zeal of someone righting a great and serious wrong, forgetting altogether to sign it.
And Alison, an acquantince whom in retrospect I regret not befriending, her asian eyes bearing down on the page like a hawk as she scribbled a ridculously long and perfunctory message about how much she would miss me over the summer.
And Tyler, my driver’s ed partner who only ever wore Metallica t-shirts; together enduring our longwinded coach as he babbled about his days in the Coast Guard and manged to slip in a few traffic instructions between anecdotes; Tyler, an excellent driver that somehow managed to fail the license test (twice), constantly ribbing me on my own sad auto skills, I ribbing him on his tawdry taste in music, who simply wrote “Try not to kill anyone out there.”
And Derick, the incredibly hot yet geeky Junior whom I probably would have slept with had he not been so goddamned pious. And Holly, the anime geek who drew cute little chibis in everyone’s books. And loads of other students just like me who left no trace, no laughs, no distinctive memories or episodes save for a small little signature in the back of someone’s yearbook.
