Wave of Mutilation

(it's a Pixies song, guys, and if you didn't know that, you're obviously crazy -- either that or you haven't appreciated Pump Up the Volume to the full scope of its brilliance)

I woke up with this yucky feeling in my stomach this morning. Not a physical yucky, but a yucky brought on by my familiar friend anxiety. I hate this feeling because most of the time I can't place the source. I've been a bit of a dink lately I'll admit, but not one thing is making me feel particularly guilty, but maybe my subconscious disagrees. Anyway, I'm living with this feeling of unease at the moment, that feeling that everyone gets from time to time, "What if secretly nobody likes me?" Or maybe that's just me -- and I have just revealed the depth of my neurosis. Oh no! Now they all know how F-ING CRAZY I AM. Right, like I can hide it in the first place.

So what's my solution? To harass everyone with e-mails (I feel an update coming on!) until they finally tear their attention away from the importance which is end-of-semester stressing and pet me gently saying "It's okay A, it's okay."

Don't worry, I'm trying to restrain my finger from the SEND button.

Worryingly, part of the feeling seems to stem from my complete brain atrophy these past 3 months. People complaining about school work is starting to make me drool, like some deranged Pavlovian test subject. I know, I know "Take it, we don't want it." But seriously, I feel like I'm getting dumber. Or maybe I should say, I feel like I'm getting more "artistic." The most intellectual thing I'm engaged in right now is my own writing, and while it amuses, it does not satisfy without a DEADLINE.

Right. I'm going away to read some D.H. Lawrence. So I can feel MORE abstract. Hurrah. F-ing F.

BTW: I'm going to take the comment option off this f-ing website, because the 0 Comments bar below each post has become demeaning.

Oh, and I'm putting up pictures of the Wienacht Markt near D&R's apt on the other site, if you're in need of a little Christmas cheer after reading that.

I have to go do some f-ing dishes now.

And if you're under 18, or related to me in anyway, by F I mean Fudge. I am cussing with a dessert item.