WHAT MADNESS IS THE WORLD COMING TO
Across the street from the bakery called “the Provincial Ant” whose almond croissants taste like lemon and whose ordinary croissants taste like mediocrity.
It’s raining, and a bit cold for May, and a three-year-old in a green coat just ran by screaming a mutilated version of “Oppa Gangnam Style.” I got another rejection for a short story last night. I missed my train because I wanted to buy breakfast from Migros. There wasn’t even a line at the checkout; I just forgot what time the bus down to the station leaves on Saturdays. The money from the hours I worked last term has not yet appeared in my bank account. I have not yet paid my bills this month, about $300 worth, or my rent. Bills keep arriving from my GP that I think my insurance should cover. I will probably need to ask my parents for money shortly.
My hair is in a loose ponytail because the good hair tie I had been using disappeared somewhere underneath my bed and the one I could find is too small to make three twists. My apartment needs a thorough vacuuming. The clothes in my laundry basket all smell terribly musty because I left them in the cold cellar to dry.
Tonight is my birthday dinner. I invited all the PhDs and two other master’s students to it, and seven people said they were showing up. I feel dumb and sad about the whole business and wish I’d just left it at the cake on the day of. I feel confident that if any of the people coming knew me as well as the guy who uninvited himself/was uninvited, they also would not be interested in eating pizza and cake with me. It seems tiresome and hypocritical. I guess I’m not very good with casual friends.
There is a big hollow place under my heart that I haven’t been able to address in words. Obviously feeling kind of numb and blank is better than feeling panicky desperation and the acute misery of needing to decide whether to commit suicide RIGHT NOW, and it’s not even full-on hopelessness I feel at the moment. I am tired. I want some time — a couple weeks, a month — to get my breath back, get my sleep schedule back, to work on personal projects, to walk and walk and walk, to go to new social situations and see if I like them and probably not go back, to drink apparently mediocre Lausanne coffee and write longhand on graph paper. Everything I write longhand is shit, but at least I get the first round of revisions out of the way when I have to type it.
Maybe I am in fact just an immature asshole who needs to grow up some, but I am tired and I don’t give a fuck, and that makes me sad.
what squirrel ate, paper cut, 2013
bone a day inkhead
I just want to watch videos of Golden Retrievers and babies UNTIL I DIE
YES I’M FUCKING SCARED
1. Read a book
2. Watch a movie
3. Take a really long bike ride
4. Write a story
5. Paint something ridiculously complicated
6. Visit a new city
7. Feel less like a hopeless piece of shit Let’s be positive, shall we? I’ll replace that with “do all my other shit.”
also apparently angry
Is that it is a sad reminder that yes, you can be totally fucking awesome and really fucking alone.
I haven’t made intelligent conversation in a fucking month.
But included in my master’s program is a dude* who I think of as the UBERDEUTSCH. He is over six feet tall, extremely blonde, does all his work two weeks ahead of time, lines up the coffee pots after he washes them, speaks excellent English with a decidedly Teutonic accent, has a Deep Booming German Voice, and after a certain point at night will put on goofy German pop music from the 90s and start dancing.
He and the ebullient Frenchman in lab (calling him a Frenchman makes me snicker because he’s 21 and looks like he’s 12) were doing karaoke to the Eurovision winner last night in lab. There’s something magical about a thunderous baritone trying really hard to match a Danish woman’s voice singing ONLY TEARDROPS at the top of his lungs.
*who I sort of a have a tiny crush on, but fuck that shit, because I think we have roughly as much in common as a German Pointer and a giant tortoise
I really like tortoises. I would never have one (because then I’d have to train up my niece to take care of it after I die, and also because if I had a Golden Retriever it would probably knock the tortoise over and All Would Be Sadness) but tortoises, man. They’re cool.
NO NO NO NO
I mean, WHY DO YOU ASK