Friendship

by Khalil Gibran


And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship."

Your friend is your needs answered.

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.

And he is your board and your fireside.

For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay."

And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;

For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.

When you part from your friend, you grieve not;

For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.

For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend.

If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.

For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?

Seek him always with hours to live.

For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.

And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.

For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

Indian Summer

In youth, it was a way I had
To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad,
To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know,
And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you!

-- Dorothy Parker

Old Friends

Sat on their park bench like bookends.
Time it was and what a time it was, it was...
A time of innocence, a time of confidences.
Long ago it must be, I have a photograph.
Preserve your memories, they're all that's left you.
~ Old Friends/Bookends, Simon & Garfunkel

I need to read more.

I remember how much I read when I was younger: everything in sight.
Why have I suddenly stopped? My own words bore me.

New plan: Becoming myself as a child again.

Don't Forget Me...

There's just one thing that I need to say
Before I close my eyeas and walk away
There's just one thing that I need to feel
Before I walk away against my will
~ Don't Forget Me, Way out West


In spite of life, and my experiences with the uglier sex, I still remain hopeful. By no means however, am I an optimist. I don't expect the best of every situation, but I do have hope that the 'best' is possible. Given the current trend, however, it might be best described as highly improbable. For those of you (all two of you who read this) who don't know, I ended things with Rasta a month ago. There is a lot of wisdom in the saying "If he did it with you, he'll do it to you." Not that it's not common sense, but apparently I prefer the view from hindsight.

Suffice it to say - breakups suck. I'm having trouble keeping it together with the explosive combination of vexation and hurt swelling inside of me. At the same time it's amazing how missing someone until your skin hurts makes you forget everything else. It's all very confusing and disgusting. You'd think by now I'd be an expert at this.

Word to the wise: don't be emotionally slutty. Don't give up your emotions until you know they're deserved. I may be living proof that you can never really know. Being treated like a princess doesn't always mean much. Still, I am glad that I am in the know rather than ignorantly blissful like a lot of women out there. If you don't trust him...chances are you're right not to. Why am I starting to sound like a Cosmo article? The last thing I want to be is a man-hater. But why do they give us so many reasons to not like them?

Still...my number one fear is being forgotten. I want to know that the past year and a half of my life has meant something to him. I guess I will never know. And I've promised to never contact him again - doing well so far.

If I could say one thing it would be this: You will forget me before I forget you.

Oh, and: Fuck you, I was a great girlfriend.

Make me a child again...

Just for tonight?

I swear that my life is one big movie. Remember that one show, with Jim Carrey and that one guy? Where his life was like, a movie? Yea, I bet I'm the Indian version.

So, the fabulous post-graduation life has yet to begin. Once again, I await the recession of red-tape to begin working. How ironic would it be if I end up living on the streets of Spanish Harlem, while my perfectly good job on Wall Street waits in the wings for me? Sounds like the Pursuit of Happyness 2, waiting to happen. Officer Ron, of the USCIS/Dept. of Homeland Security, called this week to sympathise with my woes, and assure me that he will have my case expedited...once he locates my application. He also only has a first name, and no contact information, because apparently his email address and last name are top secret and a matter of national security. So he says not hearing back from him will be a good thing, and I haven't yet - so yay. All of my fingers and toes are crossed at this point.

Did I ever mention that I hate bathing after another person? Ick. I had to scour the bathroom of other-person-ness before I could take a shower. Thank you Scrubbing Bubbles. When I finished my hot-then-cold shower of love, I looked in the mirror, and saw my mother staring back at me. Keeps happening. Incidentally, she remarked on feeling the same way when I spoke to her today; that when she sees herself, she knows that her mother is a part of her. A better part of myself I could not ask for. My mother is an angel; at the same time she is a force to be reckoned with. I love that about her. Demure and feminine, with Bitch waiting to rear her beautiful head whenever necessary. I know that I got that from her. Like when the ignorant little cousin of Rasta's ex- made the mistake of calling me a Beti and then speculating why that offended me. Nothing like a little girl vs. girl drama to spice up an uneventful week of loneliness and worry. How dare you racially slur me and psychoanalyse me at the same time? My response to the ingnorant little hussy was polite, subtly insulting and laced with just the right amount of sting. Suffice it to say, at the end of it all, she apologized, and shut the hell up.I won't go into details, and I don't mean to toot my bitch-horn, but I am not a person you want to piss off.

As a result of my not-being-able-to-leave-the-country immigration status, Rasta has gone to Can-ay-da without me. Caribana. I'm not into Carnival, I'm more like into standing next to him while some Jezebel jiggles her ass in front of him. VZ's roaming charges are insane, so we only speak online and whenever he decides to call me. I miss my Rasta! After living with him for two months, I hate not having him around. No one to cuddle, or smell. He smells so lovely. I've taken up the idea of stealing one of his tees when he's not looking so I can have a smell every so often. I doubt he'll notice. Sleeping alone has to be the gayest thing ever. Pillows don't compare.

Period's here. That equates to me sleeping in the foetal position for most of today. No Rasta to talk to, so...I blog. I should finish Emma. It's going well, except I am beginning to criticize myself according to the taste of Jane Austen, and I'm not so sure that's a good thing. I think it might be...Night!

The Truth Shall Set You Free

I love my parents.

This week, for no apparent reason, I decided to tell my parents everything about my life that they did not know. Actually, not everything...but almost. They now know:

1. I have no religion at this point (Which you're supposed to be shocked at, because my father is a minister)
2. I've been lying to them about Rasta for almost a year
3. Their daughter is not a virgén

Now I understand that for most of you, this may be normal stuff that your parents wouldn't react badly to, but would rather probably be expecting. This is sadly not the case for my parents. Actually not sadly because I will be the same way with my children. I love my parents and the way they raised me. I love the fact that I feel like my business is their business because they made me. I love the ideals that I've been instilled with, even though I've not been able to uphold them in this "not-so-ideal world" (to quote my father). At least I am aware of and firmly believe in those ideals...even now, however much I don't adhere to them. I learned this week that Aristotle calls people like me incontinent. There I was thinking that incontinence was the inability to hold your pee.

Anyway, they reacted just as I thought: angry, upset, et al. The next day they called and apologised to me for being selfish in their reaction. They are the most reasonable human beings I have ever encountered. One because they have the ability to see their own mistakes and admit to them. Two, because they are able to be pursuaded by reason, and at least entertain an idea without necessarily accepting it. Too much Aristotle, I know. I blame Dr. Satterwhite (who by the way is disgusting, but I like philosophy, so I like her by association). It is great having people who will always love you, and always be there for you - no matter what.

Now that I've stopped living a double life, I feel so free. The only burden left is establishing a life of my own, with ideals and principles of my own - and I have yet to figure out what those are. I suppose this is all a part of it.

Islands in the Sea

That is what we are...

Okay, wrong song.

Darcie_P probably hates me. We went to this "Islands in the Stream" collaboration event between HU's and GWU's CSAs (Caribbean Student's Organisations). It was supposed to be a dinner with live music and dancing. That's what the Facebook invie said. Firstly, I didn't know it was a Christmas dinner...or I wouldn't have gone. Secondly, even though it was, the parang made me feel warm and fuzzy feelings of home, regardless of how pagan it was (...what?). Anyway, apparently Basement Knokers was the entertainment provider, and they were hosting the 'after-party' as well as the 'party'. I didn't know there was an after-party.

Instead of staying, we went to get drinks (which was something impossible to do on the GWU campus) and I proceeded to get tipsy. Lamiepooh is really nice, even though she is the shallowest person on planet earth, as I've recently discovered. But...She has a kind heart, which is more than I can say for myself. I hope I'm my own worst critic. Anyway, I got home, and she went with me (after she got ready for bed) to get food, cause I was starving on account of my tipsyness. That's not why I think she's nice though, there are more, less selfish, reasons.

Anyway, this was supposed to be an apology to P, since she thought it would be something nice, and I'm sure it ended up being something that she hated. I'm sorry for real.

I got to go...eyes closing. I hope I can wake up when Rasta calls me...he hasn't yet. He told me to call him when I got back...which I did. I don't think he could tell that I was tipsy.

I am not stupid.

I know you better than you think.

So I will agree that I may have let my hunches run away with me before, but more often than not I am RIGHT about my 'feelings'. Whether it be clairvoyance or not, it's generally right. Anyone who knows me knows that. So when certain behaviours repeat themselves...don't expect me to draw any different conclusion. Especially since I was the one who caused those same behaviours a couple months ago.

I have become accustomed to a certain routine, and for some reason over the past week or so, things have become realigned in a completely different direction. Maybe this decision to take a chill pill wasn't the best one...I don't know. The point is, I'm worried about what's happening. I got absolutely NO sleep last night, and that has never happened to me before...even under the worst circumstances.

I need some reassurance. And I'm too worried it's true to ask about it. It had better not be, or you can all start calling me Lorena.

Les Halles

"I don't wanna wait, for our lives to be over.
I want to know right now, what will it be?"
~ Paula Cole, Dawson's Creek Soundtrack

I feel like Jennifer Aniston, when she was with Brad. Last night Rasta and I took Nanner out to dinner in thanks for loaning us her room, twice. She's a doll. Anyway, Rasta was in town for some boring-ass engineering something, that I would've paid more attention to if I didn't know that that meant he was coming to DC. I didn't care why really, just that he was coming. He's my new escapist drug. Not that I ever had an old one. I got all dressed up and cute, and we got there a little late...only to find out that the reservation was for two, and Rasta wasn't joining us. I had a huge pout on the inside for most of dinner.

The place was cute, though. Nanner insisted on sitting outside, even though she still had a touch of the flu and ended up having to wear my coat all night. It turned out fine, though: I have considerably more insulation than she does. Tried to make the most of dinner and to be a good conversationalist, even though I paused to notice every taxi that stopped in front of the restaurant. I knew he was coming, I just wanted him to come soon so that we could have more time together. My thoughts were distracted, however, when a couple of caucasian males got up and left..which was fine, except for the fact that the garçon was running after them. One of the men, both obviously drunk, turned around and started cursing him out for taking too long to bring the bill (or the check, as they say here). It's so hilariously funny when button-down businessmen get drunk and start acting like idiots. When that drama was over, the same garçon came up to us and announced that Rasta called, and was paying for our dinner. That was the moment I felt like Jen. I don't feel like explaining why. Go read some old tabloids to find out...they're more interesting than this anyway.

Finalmente, I heard a taxi stop in a spot that I couldn't see and out of the darkness appeared my Rasta, looking sexy as hell, as usual. That moment couldn't have been better if it were written and directed by the makers of Dawson's Creek. We sat and talked for a bit. He and Nanner harassed each other to no end, as usual. Then we walked around downtown DC for a bit looking for an ATM. It was gay, but at least I got to see him, and hold his hand. He put us in a taxi back to the towers, and jumped in one himself, back to Virginia.

Oh, if you're ever on Pennsylvania Ave, go check out Les Halles, it's pretty good.

When all else fails...do your hair.

"Life is short...Stay awake for it."
~ Caribou Coffee Bar Slogan

I had the most difficult time waking up this morning. P gave the usual wake up call at around...who knows when. I just told her something or other and plopped back down again. It's terrible to have begun each day of my life since sophomore year saying "Shit! What time is it?". Never begin your day with the word shit, it's not good for you. My mother then called at around ten-something, asking if I went to see Mr. Barksdale, who she insists on calling Mr. Boxdale, emphasis on the OXX (I haven't had the patience yet to correct her). I then preceded to get buffed for not getting up in time by both my mother AND father. Usually I just take the buff and shut up. Not today for some reason. How does repeatedly telling me that I should've gotten up earlier change the fact that I didn't? My children are going to love me.

I decided I wasn't going to any of my classes; I'm not in them anyway, so why should I be held responsible for attending? I didn't care. I know I should, leave me alone. Anyway, I had a nice hot then cold shower, washed my hair and blow-dried it. As I've realised recently - it's all about the hair. Next to shoes of course.

Good Intentions.

"Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise."
~ Proverbs 6:6

Back to blogging. Maybe. I wish my return could be marked with some deep wisdom that I picked up during my absence. Sorry. Same shit...sorta. Rasta is now my 'man'...which apparently sounds strange only to me and dregus. Still fighting to stay in school, unless they decide to purge my classes tomorrow and I jump out of the tenth storey window to my excruciatingly painful and untimely death. Too bad I'm not on the first floor of the East Towers anymore...I'd like to know what it feels like to literally break a leg. Anyway, I went to church this weekend and was inspired to change my life. For the nine hundred and sixty-seventh time. I know. I came back to campus and forgot all about it. I suppose it's not my fault that it was Ho-Bag's birthday.

This weekend marked the return of hei-kei-celle (-dre) which I was glad of. For some reason we needed a jumpstart this year. I love you guys. Hopefully I get to stay at HU, even if just for the sake of the name. Although I think dre-kei-celle sounds nicer.

I suppose we shall see what the semester holds.

Phantom Pain.

Come on in,
I've gotta tell you what state I'm in,
I've gotta tell you in my loudest tones,
That I started looking for a warning sign.
~ Coldplay, Warning Sign

Sometimes, when a limb is removed during an amputation, an individual will continue to have an internal sense of the lost limb. This phenomenon, among the many others that exist in the human body, is called phantom pain. Experiencing severe pain in the lost limb is regular among the amputees and according to medical doctors, their pain is real.

I wonder what will come next. I'm scared out of my mind, but you could never tell. I can't even tell. Maybe I'll make the right decision this time, but knowing myself I highly doubt it. Besides work and Rasta, there's nothing much more to my life. More recently I've started talking to my best friend in the world again...not that we'd stopped talking. I missed you so babe, you make me happy.

I think I might be becoming one of those stupid girls. Maybe I always was one. I've gotten myself into an impossible situation. Fcuked up beyond measure. Half of me hates it, half of me loves it. When it's over it's gonna be the same, just in reverse. I think I may have the fortitude to fool myself into not being too affected by it. I guess it won't matter really. I'm here all alone, all the people I really care about are thousands of miles away. So if I fall, like that tree in the forest, and there's no one to hear it...maybe it won't matter? I hate myself for having not one drop of real character. Maybe if I make the right decision this time I can claim some. I don't know if it works that way.

I ordered Chinese food last night from "We Delivery Cigarette Too!"...and the dude buffed me for taking long to get downstairs. I'm so emotionally fragile that he made me cry, and all he said was: "Where are you? I'm waiting!" God, I'm so retarded. Got back upstairs and prepared myself to experience the only real joy I have these days: opening fortune cookies. Not because I believe in their amazing prophecies or anything, just because they amuse me. This one said: "God looks after you especially." It made me cry. I may have lost my mind.

I wasn't always this way. I promise. I had direction and stuff. I had a sense of right and wrong. I could feel things other than numbness. I'm not always numb though, sometimes I cry for no reason; probably just to make sure I can. I feel pain too, but I suppose I shouldn't worry. It's just the agonising phantom pain of the legs I used to stand on.

Emergency hysterectomy...STAT.

“I would be the most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves.”
~ Anna Quindlen

Child-rearing must be the hardest job on earth.

I love my neices and nephews. I had never seen half of them before I met them until last Tuesday, but I instantly loved them: without reason, and without condition. Can I always stand them? Hell no. I got to be "Aunty" (though none of them called me that) for seven days, and I distinctly remember saying to my father more than once over the past week, "I'm never having children." I know this is a far cry from what I had planned for my life, if indeed I ever planned anything. But oh my God. Children are hard-damned-work. Especially four of them. Just keeping them alive and functioning is exhausting, far less for keeping them sane, sensible and happy. It's so tempting to shove a bottle in their faces , or stick them in front of the TV so they'd just shut up for a second. That's so wrong. I know that, yet I was still tempted to do it. That's why I decided that I'm never having any. I don't want my children to end up as little good-for-nothings, nor do I want them to resent me for the rest of their lives. I want them to be intelligent, successful, good citizens of the world, who are able to better it by being in it. That's a tall order. I couldn't do it with a robot, far less a child.

How the hell could anyone trust ME with a child?

I'm calling my OB/GYN.

What Dreams May Come

"Night has brought to those who sleep, only dreams
they cannot keep."
~ Enya

I haven't officially slept in fourty hours. Unless you count nodding on the way to church in my friend's SUV, while he drove entirely too fast, to be sleeping. I don't. Stayed on the phone for six and a half hours last night speaking with Rasta about religion, and God, and truth. He determined about me the same thing that most people do: that I'm immovable. And I'm glad of it. Don't get me wrong, I'm nothing of the sort to preach to you, or to practice what I don't preach. I do, however, stand firm in certain things: truths that I have proven to be so. I'm glad he saw this in me. I cannot explain why. If you knew the whole story, maybe you'd understand. He, I would say (and so would he), is a walking contradiction. Then again so am I.

Now the time for rest has come, finally. I should probably seize it, but instead I am up, refusing to succomb to the exhaustion that is overwhelming my body. Yesterday I started moving too. All by myself. Who needs men? (Me! Me! I do!). Steups. I swear I dislocated my uterus and my left kidney. Bye-bye babies. Was supposed to move the rest of shit tonight, but that ain't happening. I'll do it tomorrow night, the night before Monday: the day from hell. In that one day I must try to get my scholarship back, finish move out, check out, pack and obtain leave from two jobs to go to my brother's in Georgia - a trip that I leave for the next day, mind you. Gyad. I should rest while I can, shouldn't I? I hope Rasta doesn't call. He knows I'm exhausted. I'm well aware of the fact that we talk entirely too much. I'm addicted and so is he. This is not good.

I hope I dream tonight. I never remember what my dreams are about unfortunately, and sometimes fortunately.

I want to sleep. I want to have nice dreams. I bid you goodnight.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

"If I had a world of my own, everything would
be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything
would be what it isn't. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?"
~ Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Tonight I saw an adaptation of Alice in Wonderland, performed as a play. It was presented by the Spooky Action Theater and created, performed and written by the original members of The Manhattan Project. This is why I love DC: you can find free events like this one all the time and chances are, it's only about 15 minutes away from anywhere. It was a refreshing end to a day filled with Charlotte Brontë, a manicure and a pedicure performed by very cute, yet incomprehensible Koreans, and let's not forget talking to Rasta. Kdarn and I arrived early-slash-just-on-time at the Mead Theatre Lab after walking the wrong way down G Street. My fault. We were the only non-white people there, a fact I only happened to notice after getting a strange glare from a sweaty white man overflowing from the chair behind where we stood. I glared right back. He looked too cynical to care. Later on that night I realised he must have been a critic of some sort, because from our seats behind his, we could see him periodically take notes. Tried to macko, but his penmanship was past illegible: so he was either a critic, or writing a summary report at his mother's request. Ha.

The play was okay, in my humble opinion. Not greatness, but highly entertaining. The young and vibrant cast of six kept up high-octane energy levels and the strobe lights, which they ensured we paid specific attention to, kept the effects and transitions between acts interesting. Smiled at the Jabberwocky opening act. I'd probably not call this an adaptation, merely a performance of extracts with some humourous interjections here and there. Loved the Bob Dylan impression by the White Knight. I also paid specific attention to the audience: some were highly delighted (satisfied at their familiarity with the vignettes, no doubt) and some seemed not amused. Alice in Wonderland is not for the person who can't stand childish delights and excited humour. I myself was pleased to see the more important philosophical scenes included: Alice inquiring which way to go of the Cheshire Cat, the Caterpillar asking "Who are YOU?", and Alice's conversation with Humpty Dumpty. All in all it was an hour and a half well-spent. Had some Chipotle, the heroin of HU's campus that for some reason I don't particularly like, and headed back home on the 70-bus which was surprisingly psycho-free. Now I'm up, cause I can't seem to fall asleep before 4am. Need to fix these unhealthy hours of mine. Damn Rasta.

Wondering what the answer to the title of this entry is? Not telling. Go read Alice in Wonderland. You'll find it there. Or not. :)

Shoes can solve all sorts of problems.

"Reality is merely an illusion, although a very persistent one."
~ Albert Einstein

I want shoes.

Today I spent the first half of my day sleeping, due in no large part to a couple of beers that I casually consumed last night with dinner...and before bed. One was a Corona. One was called Rabbit something. Piss maybe. It was American, and therefore bad. I think I was just tired of consciousness. Rolled around in my heavenly comforter until around 1:30. Today began another exodus from the East Towers to the West apparently. Yay for renovations. Not yet sure when I have to move out. I think I'll just squat till somebody gets pissed off. The West is gay. Spoke to Rasta a bit, even though he had company and probably shouldn't have been speaking to me. Ahh, the privileges of the Outside Woman. Oh wait, they (or should I say we?) have none. Kidding about the outside woman part. Sorta.

Spoke to a couple friends in Trinidad today. We had one of those lovely conference calls where I could speak to all of them at the same time. It sucked. Felt like crying and hanging up at the same time. Don't even know why. I miss them. So much so that I didn't want to speak to them. Although I'm sure if I were at home, I'd wish to be here. No pleasing me apparently. Got off the phone and apologized profusely to kdarn, whom I was supposed to help move. I'm a bad friend. I helped roll across the last of her suitcases though: Redemption. She and I had lunch at that indian/arabic/terrorist kabob place: Lamb Curry, aka curry lamb. It was pretty good. Then we crossed the street, in adoring appreciation of the beautiful scene before us: blue and red flashing lights illuminating a freshly-arrested middle-aged man; white and grey police cars everywhere. Yes, Campus Police was there too. Partayy. We crossed nonchalantly, disturbingly accustomed to the hell-hole known as Georgia Avenue. Got some McFlurries (apparently they can make cardboard taste like ice-cream too) and sauntered down to the benches at Stokes. We sat and talked. Don't remember much of what we said. Saw the crackhead lady cross the courtyard, cringed at one of her psychotic exclamations, and then mused on how easily I could become her. Somehow that thought didn't scare me. I'm losing my mind.

Gathered up my things, and parted ways with my summer friend. Headed across to the Annex, neither dreading nor anticipating the four hours of Work-for-Housing ahead of me. Only had to endure it once before, and I kind of liked it. Charlotte Brontë kept me company. I love her, and I know that she loves me too. This time the honors laptop that I'm not-still-supposed-to-have kept me company. Time passed by pretty quickly. Went to the vending machine that's too close to my station to get some sugar. Just when it looked like my snack was going to get stuck, two packs of Skittles fell out. I'd like to thank Carbos, the God of Fat, for blessing me with his manna. Rasta called. He invited me to Niagara Falls for a weekend. I didn't give a definite answer. We'll see. I predict us getting stopped at the border for a couple hours and enduring an annoying interrogation about our Caribbean contraband. Even though he's from California. O Canada.

It's 11:49 now. I should start packing up and prepare for my power-walk back to the Towers. I can only imagine the element I'm going to encounter tonight. Guess I'll hafta vaya con Dios. Rather do that than plead with the Campus Escort to come get me right this second. Hot shower awaits. I should wash my hair. Maybe I'll just cut it all off, save me the trouble.

I want shoes.

to no one there.

I am, I said
To no one there
And no one heard
Not even the chair
I am, I cried
I am, said I
And I am lost and I
Can't even say why
Leaving me lonely still...
~Neil Diamond

It seems cheesy and Oprah-like, not to mention decidedly American, to blame your actions on psychological issues. Like believing that I can't go to bed at night cause my mother kept me up one night all night for being bad, and I was traumatized as a result. That never happened, by the way. Yet still however, I do believe that the human psyche is a powerful thing, and things of the past and present, as well as perceptions of the future, might have more to do with our actions than we think.

Like, I know that my present predicament is as a result of some sort of unconscious need. I'm not involved in this to be cool, or to be rebellious, or solely for pleasure's sake. I'm not sure exactly what that need is yet...or if it's being met. But I just know it. I can feel it. My friends think that I'm falling, and sliding down a slippery slope...but the thing is, I know I am. I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm doing it anyway. A certain dreadlocked friend of mine said to me recently, "The only way to live is to do whatever you feel like doing." A certain swaydo-lesbian friend of mine might agree with that. And although I find that philosophy appealing, I can't subscribe to it. I wish I were the type of person who could. I'd adopt it and live guilt-free for the rest of my life. But that's never going to happen.

For those of who kept reading this entry to see what my point was, I apologize. I have none.

Occupy.

"Work spares us from three evils: boredom, vice, and need."
~ Voltaire, 1694-1778

I hate to beg for anything. More than I hate standing in lines at any place aside from the box office. Last week I begged, to the fullest extent that my pride would let me, for 'Work for Housing'. That's where they give you housing in exchange for 20 hours of work per week. My first application was rejected, because none of the Community Directors "knew me," so they didn't pick me. So I applied for 'Summer Housing' which is where they give you housing in exchange for money. And lots of it. I resigned to using my Supply Chain Management Research paycheck to pay for housing. That way I'd pretty much break even, and survive the summer. The research would be something to put on my resumé, and it'd help me get into Grad School...which I'm not sure I even want to do anyway. Then my normal job would cover my costs of living. Why didn't I intern on Wall Street this summer? Oh right, cause I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a toothpick.

Today I got a call saying that I had been chosen to replace someone who failed to show up for their 'Work for Housing'. So yay, now I don't have to pay for my housing, and I can probably (notice I said probably) save some money and stop being the stereotypical broke college student. The sum of all of this however, is that I have to work three jobs this summer. I am going to hate all three of them, it's going to be sickeningly hot and I'm going to be sickeningly lonely. I guess being busy and tired as shit will help me stay out of trouble, which I've already somehow found myself in. Why didn't I just go to Trinidad and lounge around all day? Oh right, cause that'd cost money...that I don't have.

Ahh, being an adult sucks. For those of you thinking about it, I don't recommend it.

Once Upon a Time.

Lead me from the unreal to the real !
Lead me from darkness to light !
Lead me from death to immortality !
~ Brihad-aranyaka Upanishad, c. 800-400 BCE, 1.3.28

There isn't much in this life that's worth anything except human relationships. None of the things that 'matter' really matter unless there's someone, or some people to share them with. The dynamics of human relationships are very interesting. All we really have is our perception of reality, especially when it comes to interacting with other human beings. Reality, in human relationships, never matters. And if it doesn't matter, then it really doesn't exist.

I love my friends. They aren't many, but they say you're lucky if you can count your friends on one hand. I'm not really sure what makes people friends, but I think that it's communication that keeps those relationships alive where they do exist. There is no relationship where there's no real contact. I can be friends with my teddy bear in Trinidad if that were so. I think that it's just kind of unfortunate when you have friends that you can't talk to anymore. For whatever reason. This seems to be the general trend in my life these days. Out of the three I thought that I had...one remains alive. As for the other two, I don't know what to say. Maybe our lack of relationship is my fault, I don't know. What I do know is that if I'm the only one trying, then it might not be worth it. I don't think I'm expecting too much either. But again, maybe I'm wrong. I know there may be a lot going on that I'm unaware of, but I can only act and feel based on what I am aware of.

I'm probably being an emotional girl...but that's who I am. I can't apologize for that. I still love my friends. But unfortunately that love is based off what we used to be. If there is still friendship there...then it's surviving off the fumes of the past. That...fills me with sadness.

Maybe I'm getting all of this wrong. Maybe I cannot see what's going on in reality. But reality doesn't really exist. Only our perception of it.

Imitation of Life

Sadness is when...

You have nothing to show for three years of life.

You are your most reliable friend.

There is not one person you can talk to who will, or can understand you.

You can't tell the difference between who you are, and what you show people.

Everything is uncertain.

Your first inclination is always the wrong thing.

Sleep is your refuge.

Your own parents don't know you.

No one knows you.

Nothing matters.