Status: comes and goes.
Me, My Prussian Blues (and That Guy With the Horns)
A Letter to Foster, From A Lonely Pupil (o1)
[Exact copy]/
Adddress Bar: 'FANMAIL: (This is long. Grab some popcorn or a handgun.) It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...'
Hello. Feels like a long time. My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts:
I hate summertime at my house. I always have. Well, it's a bittersweet sort of hatred. It is sweet because during summer I can at last justify my melancholy with loneliness rather than the usual godawful self-pity. This guy once said, I can't remember his name: 'The more powerful and original the mind, the more often it seeks the Religion of solitude.'
But I do not seek solitude. I am given it.
Chris is off partying in Waterville. Mother hates him for it, but come on, the boy can take care of himself; he's got a machete under his car seat. My sister works at the mysterious 'Barn' (I've no idea where it is or what she does there) half the day, then figure skates at the Arena for an hour in the late afternoon. Then she comes home (by which time I hope to be out of sight or out of house) and constructs something really abominable for consummation from all or a combination of: salami, cheese, white bread (bleached flour), butter, sausage patties, mayonnaise, chocolate (if we have any. We don't.), and of course the secret ingredient to all patented Catherine recipes: garlic powder. (She spillt some red pepper on the floor of the kitchen today; I didn't realise until I stepped in it. I think my feet are allergic.)
Mother and Father work very late. Well, Mother could be home by 5:30, but she takes classes at UNH so she can Product Manage more efficiently or whatever. Goddamn waste of time, if you ask me.
This leaves me, the house, and the cats. Mother doesn't believe in heating or cooling the house until absolutely necessary so it's usually a Saharan furnace and a Hoth-grade freezer in July and December, respectively. To try and compensate in the summertime, the ceiling fans run and anything with a screen that can be opened or forced open is opened. As a result, the house has an eerie sort of movement and transparency to it; to me, at least. In the house in the summertime I feel between universes; an uneasy limbo of anti-progress.
In grade school, I read my way through Beauty and the Beast-size libraries of books. Nowadays, I have the attention span and energy only for video games, sci-fi films, and mind-numbing television. Typical of your average under-achiever. But that's not supposed to me. I'm supposed to write or draw or do something productive beyond evolving my Pikachu at level 52 so that it knows Volt Tackle.
All I can ever complain about during the school year is how little time I have to do everything I want. How if I had a single week to myself, I would create the World and more. It never happens. What's stopping me? I don't know. I need resolution. Commitment.
A tenth grader in my town's public school system is publishing a book, did you know? My mother told me. She always tells me. She's beaten into me every last ounce of her own disturbing over-achiever qualities until I desire what she desires, I hope for what she hopes and strive for what must MUST be striven for. The problem is that the life of misfortune she lived and adapted to is not mine; I have no needs. Descartes said that because he could recognise his own human imperfections, there must be a higher being from which the model of perfection comes from and towards which he strives. But the model of perfection comes from Mother; nature vs. nurture. And so slowly every last bit of the will to work hard and succeed I built up since kindergarten is surprisingly—-unsurprisingly—-gently flagellated from me by the excruciating, dogged fear of inadequacy.
It is hard not to feel defeated when I imagined so glorious a victory.
I call it laziness. Procrastination. But it really feels like something far more dreadful, more serious. My life is shamefully measured in and between periods of Resolution. The Resolution makes me feel powerful, purposeful, but all too soon it slips from my grasp and fades into a haze of sleep and mind-numbing out-of-body experiences where I can think only in terms of tetris-like blocks; no matter how hard I try there's always a few blocks left, never do they disappear and leave the screen deliciously blank... and it is so obviously due only to my own discrepancies.
There's an enormous blow-up monkey head hammer across my room. Lauren won it for me at the carnival last summer. It's a horrible reminder. I had friends, you know. I give up on them before they can give up on me.
There's a little jar of tiger balm on the lowest shelf of the bookcase headboard on my bed, you know, the stuff that you put on sore muscles? It's also a horrible reminder. Tiger balm was my best friend in childhood. But nowadays it doesn't really work for me; I don't feel the easing burn or coolness of the balm on my muscles any more, so I have no use for it. Why is it there? Well, I like the smell. The jar remains closed and half empty forever, but when I wake up in the morning it is to the stuffy atmosphere of my very own cave, redolent of fear, failure, love, sweat, and the melancholy scent of a child's tiger balm.
I finally submitted to an exotic—-to the unpractised eye—-form of self-torture the other day. Not the first time, of course, but this was different. The first time is due to a frankly weak lack of self-esteem, but the others are driven by the typical middle class child's need to hurt others so that they receive the attention they desire. Because this is hard to accomplish, they see that they must hurt themselves in order to achieve the desired effect. This philosophy covers the nights spent in trees, the unwilling addictions to energy drinks (or for the weaker minds: heavy eyeliner), subconsciously picking fights with your most violent siblings, and the acceptance of—-and even volunteering for—-the goalie position of any sport that involves defying one's own survival instincts by consciously blocking an undeniably non-sentient net or basket from the assault of speeding missiles with one's body.
However, back to the other day, I indulged in something a little more disgusting. You're getting worried now, stop it. I'm not stupid.
It started when I had to pee. You know how it is. Unfortunately sister-dear decided that if she stepped into the bathroom and began to brush her teeth just as I was shutting the door, then she was to remain and I was to leave. My American sense of justice completely objected to this obnoxious abuse of human rights. The age-old right of first come first serve. Or the 'I was totes here first' law.
I shouted. I was not in the mood for this selfish assassination to get in the way of my bodily functions right then. I may or may not have very lightly kneed her in the upper leg.
She kicked me.
It really hurt. Surprisingly so.
I was extremely mad. Over such a little thing, I know, but it happens so often, and this was so definitely and obviously an act of hypocritical wrong by her.
After an hour of stewing in my bedroom, I went downstairs as the clock struck...well, 11:45PM. I was really shaking, you know. So angry.
I poured the last of the stone cold coffee from that afternoon into my red 'Keep Calm And Carry On' mug right to the brim and sat cross-legged on the granite counter. For maybe 30 minutes I forced myself to drink that cold coffee black. Like I deserved it, or something.
And first, I would think this was some sort of plea for attention to be brought to me: the wronged individual. But...it was midnight. It was dark, cold, and silent. There was no one around to see this, to know of this. So why, then, I ask myself, did I decide on this sort of punishment? It was extremely unpleasant, extremely meaningless to anyone else but me. I took three extra strength Tylenol and went to sleep with two swollen bruises on my legs.
Sometimes I worry I'm bipolar. I change moods a lot, quickly, irritatingly. (Makes everything I write extremely discursive, I realise.) The looping roller-coasters of sweet melancholy, and what I think is depression then punctuated with the soft, short glow of contentment all seem to blend together into one crappy Universal Park amusement ride that I waited 90 minutes—9 months—to get on just to be disappointed in the end.
My mood shifts must be awful for my friends. One second I'll be fumbling with my phone to send a text to Rainy in Boston to see what's up and has she forgotten me yet? and then she'll ask me to do something and I'll go right back to feeling unappreciated and ignoring all outside contact. I don't feel crazy; I don't feel like these shifts are unprecedented or unjustified, so I've come to the shaky conclusion that it is yet another subconscious longing for attention; by faking a serious illness.
How are you, Foster, O Teacher of Depraved Souls? I don't know if you've left or if the packing process is still taking place or what, but I hope you don't regret anything. That just blows. Regret is my worst fear after inadequacy.
Maybe there's fun shopping and cool souvenirs and beaches and maybe even mind-blowingly gorgeous immortal vampire boys! Yes! Actually...I don't think it rains 90% of the year in Chile, so maybe...chupacabras? Anything's possible for the adolescent romantic.
Shorn
[/]
Adddress Bar: 'FANMAIL: (This is long. Grab some popcorn or a handgun.) It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...'
Hello. Feels like a long time. My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts:
I hate summertime at my house. I always have. Well, it's a bittersweet sort of hatred. It is sweet because during summer I can at last justify my melancholy with loneliness rather than the usual godawful self-pity. This guy once said, I can't remember his name: 'The more powerful and original the mind, the more often it seeks the Religion of solitude.'
But I do not seek solitude. I am given it.
Chris is off partying in Waterville. Mother hates him for it, but come on, the boy can take care of himself; he's got a machete under his car seat. My sister works at the mysterious 'Barn' (I've no idea where it is or what she does there) half the day, then figure skates at the Arena for an hour in the late afternoon. Then she comes home (by which time I hope to be out of sight or out of house) and constructs something really abominable for consummation from all or a combination of: salami, cheese, white bread (bleached flour), butter, sausage patties, mayonnaise, chocolate (if we have any. We don't.), and of course the secret ingredient to all patented Catherine recipes: garlic powder. (She spillt some red pepper on the floor of the kitchen today; I didn't realise until I stepped in it. I think my feet are allergic.)
Mother and Father work very late. Well, Mother could be home by 5:30, but she takes classes at UNH so she can Product Manage more efficiently or whatever. Goddamn waste of time, if you ask me.
This leaves me, the house, and the cats. Mother doesn't believe in heating or cooling the house until absolutely necessary so it's usually a Saharan furnace and a Hoth-grade freezer in July and December, respectively. To try and compensate in the summertime, the ceiling fans run and anything with a screen that can be opened or forced open is opened. As a result, the house has an eerie sort of movement and transparency to it; to me, at least. In the house in the summertime I feel between universes; an uneasy limbo of anti-progress.
In grade school, I read my way through Beauty and the Beast-size libraries of books. Nowadays, I have the attention span and energy only for video games, sci-fi films, and mind-numbing television. Typical of your average under-achiever. But that's not supposed to me. I'm supposed to write or draw or do something productive beyond evolving my Pikachu at level 52 so that it knows Volt Tackle.
All I can ever complain about during the school year is how little time I have to do everything I want. How if I had a single week to myself, I would create the World and more. It never happens. What's stopping me? I don't know. I need resolution. Commitment.
A tenth grader in my town's public school system is publishing a book, did you know? My mother told me. She always tells me. She's beaten into me every last ounce of her own disturbing over-achiever qualities until I desire what she desires, I hope for what she hopes and strive for what must MUST be striven for. The problem is that the life of misfortune she lived and adapted to is not mine; I have no needs. Descartes said that because he could recognise his own human imperfections, there must be a higher being from which the model of perfection comes from and towards which he strives. But the model of perfection comes from Mother; nature vs. nurture. And so slowly every last bit of the will to work hard and succeed I built up since kindergarten is surprisingly—-unsurprisingly—-gently flagellated from me by the excruciating, dogged fear of inadequacy.
It is hard not to feel defeated when I imagined so glorious a victory.
I call it laziness. Procrastination. But it really feels like something far more dreadful, more serious. My life is shamefully measured in and between periods of Resolution. The Resolution makes me feel powerful, purposeful, but all too soon it slips from my grasp and fades into a haze of sleep and mind-numbing out-of-body experiences where I can think only in terms of tetris-like blocks; no matter how hard I try there's always a few blocks left, never do they disappear and leave the screen deliciously blank... and it is so obviously due only to my own discrepancies.
There's an enormous blow-up monkey head hammer across my room. Lauren won it for me at the carnival last summer. It's a horrible reminder. I had friends, you know. I give up on them before they can give up on me.
There's a little jar of tiger balm on the lowest shelf of the bookcase headboard on my bed, you know, the stuff that you put on sore muscles? It's also a horrible reminder. Tiger balm was my best friend in childhood. But nowadays it doesn't really work for me; I don't feel the easing burn or coolness of the balm on my muscles any more, so I have no use for it. Why is it there? Well, I like the smell. The jar remains closed and half empty forever, but when I wake up in the morning it is to the stuffy atmosphere of my very own cave, redolent of fear, failure, love, sweat, and the melancholy scent of a child's tiger balm.
I finally submitted to an exotic—-to the unpractised eye—-form of self-torture the other day. Not the first time, of course, but this was different. The first time is due to a frankly weak lack of self-esteem, but the others are driven by the typical middle class child's need to hurt others so that they receive the attention they desire. Because this is hard to accomplish, they see that they must hurt themselves in order to achieve the desired effect. This philosophy covers the nights spent in trees, the unwilling addictions to energy drinks (or for the weaker minds: heavy eyeliner), subconsciously picking fights with your most violent siblings, and the acceptance of—-and even volunteering for—-the goalie position of any sport that involves defying one's own survival instincts by consciously blocking an undeniably non-sentient net or basket from the assault of speeding missiles with one's body.
However, back to the other day, I indulged in something a little more disgusting. You're getting worried now, stop it. I'm not stupid.
It started when I had to pee. You know how it is. Unfortunately sister-dear decided that if she stepped into the bathroom and began to brush her teeth just as I was shutting the door, then she was to remain and I was to leave. My American sense of justice completely objected to this obnoxious abuse of human rights. The age-old right of first come first serve. Or the 'I was totes here first' law.
I shouted. I was not in the mood for this selfish assassination to get in the way of my bodily functions right then. I may or may not have very lightly kneed her in the upper leg.
She kicked me.
It really hurt. Surprisingly so.
I was extremely mad. Over such a little thing, I know, but it happens so often, and this was so definitely and obviously an act of hypocritical wrong by her.
After an hour of stewing in my bedroom, I went downstairs as the clock struck...well, 11:45PM. I was really shaking, you know. So angry.
I poured the last of the stone cold coffee from that afternoon into my red 'Keep Calm And Carry On' mug right to the brim and sat cross-legged on the granite counter. For maybe 30 minutes I forced myself to drink that cold coffee black. Like I deserved it, or something.
And first, I would think this was some sort of plea for attention to be brought to me: the wronged individual. But...it was midnight. It was dark, cold, and silent. There was no one around to see this, to know of this. So why, then, I ask myself, did I decide on this sort of punishment? It was extremely unpleasant, extremely meaningless to anyone else but me. I took three extra strength Tylenol and went to sleep with two swollen bruises on my legs.
Sometimes I worry I'm bipolar. I change moods a lot, quickly, irritatingly. (Makes everything I write extremely discursive, I realise.) The looping roller-coasters of sweet melancholy, and what I think is depression then punctuated with the soft, short glow of contentment all seem to blend together into one crappy Universal Park amusement ride that I waited 90 minutes—9 months—to get on just to be disappointed in the end.
My mood shifts must be awful for my friends. One second I'll be fumbling with my phone to send a text to Rainy in Boston to see what's up and has she forgotten me yet? and then she'll ask me to do something and I'll go right back to feeling unappreciated and ignoring all outside contact. I don't feel crazy; I don't feel like these shifts are unprecedented or unjustified, so I've come to the shaky conclusion that it is yet another subconscious longing for attention; by faking a serious illness.
How are you, Foster, O Teacher of Depraved Souls? I don't know if you've left or if the packing process is still taking place or what, but I hope you don't regret anything. That just blows. Regret is my worst fear after inadequacy.
Maybe there's fun shopping and cool souvenirs and beaches and maybe even mind-blowingly gorgeous immortal vampire boys! Yes! Actually...I don't think it rains 90% of the year in Chile, so maybe...chupacabras? Anything's possible for the adolescent romantic.
Shorn
[/]
♠ ♠ ♠
To my master, in Chile....Don't read this.