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Laura (lailailai) wrote,
@ 2004-11-13 23:16:00
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    Current music:Mogwai - "Stop Coming to My House"

    Oh man.
    I've stopped having emotions. I never get happy, never get sad and never get any of the emotions that lie on the continuum between the two. Well that's not true, but when I do feel something, it feels kind of hollow and ephemeral. I don't know if that's a normal feeling. I'm fine, I guess. I'm not sad most of the time. Just, not really anything.

    I don't even like going to shows. Last year I was really into that--shows, music, discussing music, analyzing it, sharing it, mixtaping and all that. Maybe I should get back into that. I don't know. Last year I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a journalist. These days I just want to be a decently-paid white-collar cog in a large corporation where I can be invisible, where I don't have to innovate, where I'm just told what to accomplish in the 9-to-5 segment of my day. And then I can go home to my sparsely-furnished apartment and cat, eat a sandwich and go to sleep. I don't want to create, I just want to work for The Man. Drifting through life is fine, as long as nothing really bad happens.

    I'd like read a book. I haven't read a book for fun in a long time. I think I'd like to read "Lolita" again. Nabokov is an incredible writer. I would give my right arm to be able to write prose like him. Maybe if I could, I would be more creative, maybe I'd have the drive to change something. But no, maybe not.

    What am I talking about? I am overprivileged. Nothing bad has ever happened to me, I think. Thinking. I just think too much. I'm too privileged for my own good. I need to find something to do so I stop thinking about this shit. God knows, I've been trying, but I've pretty much gotten rejected from everything I applied to: non-profit internships, administrative jobs and retail jobs. Jesus Christ, I'm stupid. My mind wanders so much these days. I can't focus on homework. I've been sitting here for hours trying to do my Psychology reading and my mind keeps wandering back to things. I don't even know what I think about most of the time. I just want to go to sleep, really. I kind of don't want to deal with stuff. Stuff is such a general term, not a particularly helpful one. I don't know what I mean by "stuff" which is probably why I used it. It's general.

    I know--oh boo-hoo, poor little rich girl. I know. I have no real problems, I know this is ALL irrational and that I should be grateful. I AM grateful for all I have, I really am. I'm grateful to be getting a higher education. I'm grateful for my parents who are, in their own way, loving. I'm grateful to be able to live in America. I'm grateful for food and clothing and everything that I've been given, even though I don't deserve it. I don't deserve any of this. There are so many people out there who would make good use of what I've been given. So why can't I do it? Maybe I can do it? I can't even get a job in retail, who am I kidding? I'm probably going to end up on welfare. That won't go down too well, because there's a federal deficit and all the money is going into funding wars of questionable legitimacy.

    I know I should shut up--I usually do. Except this once I'd like to get it all out there.

    I used to be more emotional. To the point where it was detrimental, especially when I used to mix amphetamines and vodka. That was bad, I had some bad times doing that. Crying and shaking, panicking and incoherence, babbling all this weird stuff--all the sort of bad shit. I don't want to do that ever again. But I don't know, during the times that I wasn't fucked up, I think I was pretty happy.

    Haven't left my dorm room in three weeks, except to go to class. I can't wait to graduate, except I know that things are unlikely to improve. There are too many social expectations. If you don't go out on the weekends, you're weird. If you don't drink, you're weird. If you don't like standing in dark, cramped, sweaty rooms yelling over the music and watching faux-lipstick-lesbians in impractical clothing writhe in order to titillate frat-boys with thick necks, you're weird. It's not fun. I don't drink anymore, either. Don't like to go see movies or go shopping. Or do any of the regular garden-variety market-economy activities that are available. I don't particularly like talking to people either. It's such a chore. Nothing seems to have a point, really.

    Except running, I'm really into that these days. It's just so simple. You put on some clothes, put on some shoes and move your legs and arms. It's so nice to feel your muscles contract, propelling you forward. It has a point. Your muscles and willpower take you from here to there. You take in oxygen and release carbon dioxide and water. You sweat to maintain homeostasis. Everything works in consortium. Everything works. It's so nice to be tired so I can come back and go to sleep, and not worry about having to do things.

    Except I still smoke. That's bad, but I guess I don't have to worry about lung cancer until I'm at least 40. I doubt I'll live that long, anyway. I don't know what I'm going to do with myself when I actually have to be independent. I kind of vaguely hope that I'll die suddenly in a relatively painless fashion, except I'm too much of a pussy to do it myself and I don't want to hurt the people around me. If it happens by chance it won't be my fault and nobody can blame me or themselves for that happening to me. Is it a sin to vaguely want to die? Oh it doesn't matter, I'm not religious anyway.

    Sleeping is fun too. It takes up most of the day. Oh, and going to the supermarket. That's the only type of shopping that's still good. The fruits and vegetables at Whole Foods are so prettily displayed. Everything looks so well-packaged and neat.

    I'm listening to Janis Joplin right now. I remember when this music used to be intensely cathartic (I know--I'm lame. I used to get shivers when I heard "Summertime"). The beauty in her music came from the raw emotion in her voice. I can still identify it, it's still there, that strung-out oxymoronic hard-voice-vulnerable-lyrics combination. I just don't get anything out of it anymore. It's still a great song to listen to, I guess. It's just that it doesn't affect me anymore. Just like how Gabriel Faure's "Pavane" used to make me want to cry, but now it's just another piece of music. Maybe it's better this way.

    I just changed the song to "Little Wing" by Jimi Hendrix. This is a beautiful song. I don't always listen to this type of music, it's just that Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix are close together on my playlist and they both happen to be talented, dead musicians from the sixties. I wonder why exceptional talent seems to be comorbid with psychological instability. Is it because your mind is devoted to so many other things that it doesn't have time for keeping you normal and happy? I wonder why my mind can't do that because I'm not exceptionally talented. I used to be able to write wittily, coherently and beautifuly. When I was, like, twelve. Now at the age of eighteen, I'm reduced to posting long, drawn-out ramblings on a fucking livejournal.

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