Don't Get Excited...
...because once you've read this you'll wish I hadn't written it.
Yes, I've been avoiding you.
I've been suffering from an odd form of writer's block... I have tons of ideas on *how* to say things, but no idea what to say. I think what it wants is daily practice. As if I could actually update this daily. I fear it would be too boring to read, especially now that school is out. Here is a sample entry from the depths of that purgatory: I slept until 1pm today. Ate a sandwich. Watched the travel channel. Went to work. Came home. Played scrabulous. Read Dickens. Lather, rinse, repeat, ad nauseum.
Speaking of nausea, I have spent the last month (3 months?) in a constant state of anxiety. It's usually not bad enough to manifest itself obviously, it's just sort of a low hum in the back of my brain, a crazy-making (thank you, Scott Westerfeld) little manic soundtrack that keeps me from thinking about anything but my own impending doom. Yes, this is one of *those* blog entries. I warn you now, you may need a Xanax, or at least a pint of Ben & Jerry's, if you read this all the way through.
I've been suffering from many minor illnesses lately, most of which I believe to be mental. I'm pretty sure I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, if that is a real thing. I'm inclined to believe that it's one of those diseases the drug companies make up to sell pills, but I also happen to really like it, as much as one can like a disease, simply because of the quirky fact that it's acronym is SAD. Which I think is hilarious. Anyway, my depression is pretty bad right now, and up until lately I've been quite a violent Scrooge ( I blame you for my newfound hatred of Christmas, Hannah), though this has been improving as the actual day draws near. I'm also pretty sure I'm a hypochondriac, but on the other hand there may be something really wrong with me physically, which I should find out on Thursday when I finally go to the doctor. I was supposed to wait until January 3rd, but I just can't take it anymore. What was once a mere suspicion is now actually painful.
In other news, I still have no idea what I want to do with my life. I'm applying to grad schools, but I don't know why. I don't think anyone will take me, and if they did I'm not sure I want to go. I'm considering going to France next year but I can't go unless I have perfect health and who knows if that's true anymore. Also, I weigh more than I ever have and hate the sight of myself. My mother wants to take me shopping for my Christmas present, and I need to get a dress for my cousin's wedding, and frankly I cannot think of anything more horrible than finding out just how many different articles of clothing in this world I can try on and still look fat.
Oh, and then there's all the lovely guilt that comes with all of this. Guilt for not enjoying Christmas, guilt from being depressed, guilt from complaining when I am a rich American with all the blessings and opportunity in the world, etc etc etc. I haven't even donated anything to charity yet this season, except for the red kettles.
Here's my holiday gift to all of you: take me as an example of what not to be.
Yes, I've been avoiding you.
I've been suffering from an odd form of writer's block... I have tons of ideas on *how* to say things, but no idea what to say. I think what it wants is daily practice. As if I could actually update this daily. I fear it would be too boring to read, especially now that school is out. Here is a sample entry from the depths of that purgatory: I slept until 1pm today. Ate a sandwich. Watched the travel channel. Went to work. Came home. Played scrabulous. Read Dickens. Lather, rinse, repeat, ad nauseum.
Speaking of nausea, I have spent the last month (3 months?) in a constant state of anxiety. It's usually not bad enough to manifest itself obviously, it's just sort of a low hum in the back of my brain, a crazy-making (thank you, Scott Westerfeld) little manic soundtrack that keeps me from thinking about anything but my own impending doom. Yes, this is one of *those* blog entries. I warn you now, you may need a Xanax, or at least a pint of Ben & Jerry's, if you read this all the way through.
I've been suffering from many minor illnesses lately, most of which I believe to be mental. I'm pretty sure I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, if that is a real thing. I'm inclined to believe that it's one of those diseases the drug companies make up to sell pills, but I also happen to really like it, as much as one can like a disease, simply because of the quirky fact that it's acronym is SAD. Which I think is hilarious. Anyway, my depression is pretty bad right now, and up until lately I've been quite a violent Scrooge ( I blame you for my newfound hatred of Christmas, Hannah), though this has been improving as the actual day draws near. I'm also pretty sure I'm a hypochondriac, but on the other hand there may be something really wrong with me physically, which I should find out on Thursday when I finally go to the doctor. I was supposed to wait until January 3rd, but I just can't take it anymore. What was once a mere suspicion is now actually painful.
In other news, I still have no idea what I want to do with my life. I'm applying to grad schools, but I don't know why. I don't think anyone will take me, and if they did I'm not sure I want to go. I'm considering going to France next year but I can't go unless I have perfect health and who knows if that's true anymore. Also, I weigh more than I ever have and hate the sight of myself. My mother wants to take me shopping for my Christmas present, and I need to get a dress for my cousin's wedding, and frankly I cannot think of anything more horrible than finding out just how many different articles of clothing in this world I can try on and still look fat.
Oh, and then there's all the lovely guilt that comes with all of this. Guilt for not enjoying Christmas, guilt from being depressed, guilt from complaining when I am a rich American with all the blessings and opportunity in the world, etc etc etc. I haven't even donated anything to charity yet this season, except for the red kettles.
Here's my holiday gift to all of you: take me as an example of what not to be.
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