starting this journal more than three years ago, i would have never dreamed that i would end up here. where am i? regenstein library, sleep-deprived, working like a dog, on the brink of entering corporate america. hopeful, yes hopeful. i still have that manic streak. maybe i haven't changed that much afterall. in a strange fluke of openness i told roommate of mine about my melancholic sado-masochistic stalker/lap-dog from the strip club. my roommate is a little fella who covers up a reviling self-importance with obsequiousness. dammit that i'm a sucker for sycophants. so i told him a story i shouldn't have, because by now i understand the crucial link between personal information and vulnerability. guess his response. he said it wasn't that uncommon of an experience! and he went off about the japanese strippers he's heard about. heard about.
i don't know why i'm so insulted. maybe i am quite average afterall, despite a few forays into wheelings and dealings. a few years ago, i was just a little girl that grew up in any family. but whatever. the sadomasochistic lap-dog guy story i usually just tell for shits and giggles anyways. i told my roommates last year about that. but i guess my living situation this year is different. i pretend i am in a victorian brownstone mansion that is haunted by ghosts from millenial america. perturbing twits! always loud and drunk. but harmless, impotent ghosts. in spooky voices, they tell me to die and join them in corona, hydro filled nights. away with thee! they, like most ghosts, leave signs of disturbances: toothpaste stain on the counter, a ragu stained ceramic. but this victorian mansion is mine, mine with its mahogany woodwork and ornate doorknobs. oh the tall ceilings, how beautiful. if only it wasn't haunted by a strip mall as well.
ah me, ah me! you can probably tell i've changed given the writing style. oh, i've learned much from my english major. style divulges so much. but only in conjunction with content. style, style. i want to cruise in a bmw and shop at bergdorf's, so i am temporarily selling my soul. i want that gunmetal-gray BMW 745 Li to prove that my soul is worth something to myself, and that myself is worth something to my parents, my children, and that elusive figure at the periphery of my ganglia.
i am not drunk, but after being awake this long, my body is firing serontonin like cannonballs into my bloodstream. i have a little blue pill to get me through all the classes. i will have a four pointer this quarter. the four pointer is the training tryke for the 745 Li. Adderall is for A. And A is for a. one long step within many.
its funny that after i decide to enter Finance and fuck my writing career that i am able to write again. write stuff that i like! its all flowing now. there has been four capital letters thus far. the english degree has taught me well. even though i tried to thwart it at every possible turn with my arrogance, ignorance, and laziness. i am all three of those things. i am old enough to realize that now. but still young enough to hope i won't always be that way. i still hope that all of my mistakes will culminate into a golden moment when everything will make sense. i will realize everything in the past has been grooming me for one moment, that every dirty dirtiness was teaching me a lesson, slowly edging me towards enlightenment. you know, the climax of a detective story. no even grander than that. it is the idea of fate, that all of those tangled and oily strands will weave together into a tapestry of beauty, truth, enlightenment.
i still believe in enlightenment, in the cosmos, in the soul. i saw the cosmos, i saw consciousness as little specks of light. everything is everything and everything is connected. i am both big and small. i am infinite like i always suspected. then the psilosybin was metabolized. but it was real goddammit.
i enjoy writing better when i discover new things by writing. and i only discover that by writing as fast as i possibly can. but i can't stand knotted fingers and bumpy prose. so i reread and edit each sentence. repeatly. ah, my downfall. i write everything in final draft form. i wish i were a literary Mozart.
its still there. i can't talk about that. not here not not here. not anywhere. revealing is vulnerability. and its there. in the periphery. i can't negotiate with it. i must ignore it. i will come back someday. when i am ready. i will be armed with gunmetal grey.
and yes, i'll go back to art eventually. it is where my soul is planted. if, years from now, i still remember where i placed that sad little pod, i will go back. by then i will have the water to feed it.
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