Beating around the Bush
Hello, I'm cynical

Well, fuck.

Let's just say that. La di fucking da. The world is going to hell in a handbasket.

Congress just gave Bush full military authority. There's a psychotic sniper on the Loose in DC. And Mattel is marketing a vibrating Nimbus 2000 Toy.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!?!?

The world is in the hand of terrorists and a man with the mentality of a seven-year-old (not to mention his evil, power-hungry, republican backers) and Mattel is packaging vibrators for kids. GREAT. Well, at least the young ones can enjoy themselves before they die in a FIERY NUCLEAR BLAST!!!!!!!

AAAAAUUGH!!! *KICK KICK KICK*

Ok... breathe, Kat, breathe.

I'm sorry. I'm stressed. I've been sick for a week. I haven't been getting enough sleep and things are not improving. I'm getting sicker, less sleep, more irritable. Ugh.

When I get like this, undue cynicism is really the only way I can vent my anxiety. It irks me, because I know it just means I fit into the urban-liberal-activist-who-talks-and-know-nothing streotype. But GOD does it feel good to say "fuck everything."

I'm *supposed* to be enjoying myself. I want a challenge this term. I'm only trying to balance work, the magazine, and school. But there's always so much more. Schoolwork. Relationships. Friends.

Playing confessor means I don't just carry my own burdens but those of the people who give theirs to me. I'm just a little weighted down right now.

I'm SO glad I'm at ease with everyone in my life. I just couldn't deal with any drama right now. Which means, basically, now that I've asked for it, it will come. I hope I at least get some good sex and violence out of it. Kat needs with the sex and violence. So much release. So little time for it.

I want to scream sometimes. I want to grab my hair and pull it all out, to make myself ugly and untouchable in the eyes of the world. To give myself a reason to be embittered. I don't really want that but I feel so GUILTY for being cynical. I feel so GUILTY for holding secrets in my hands.

Forgive me Father, for I have Sinned. At least I have to hold that I'm not a Christian. In the eyes of the Goddess, all my love and lust, all my lies and conscious-subconscious manipulations are acceptable because they're involuntary. Because they're in the name of love. (One night in the name of love?) I only move on them when the earth moves me.

But it would be nice, I mean, to have a confessor. I play a good priest, right? I give pretty good advice. I listen pretty well. I'd just, you know, like to be mutually candid. Tho I guess I have people for that. Murray listens. And I'm pretty much brutally honest with Cat (standing outside Japanese today, interspersing the work FUCK into our conversation). But the people I know know all the other people I know, know the people I confess ABOUT. Etc. This be a problem.

Will you be my confessor, Blogger? Will you give me seven Hail Mary's and send me home to drink a gin and tonic (and I will-- would, had we the ingredients). Or will you just tell my friends?

I feel guilty for caring about the little things.

My life is so small in scope. We'll be at war with Iraq in less than a month, guaranteed, and here I am worrying about instilling Drama. Well FUCK THAT. I'll give the sniper guy SOME credit. For a sicko, at least he's teaching people to live their lives like they could die any moment. Cos they could.

So I say tonight we party. I drink myself into a stupor, tell everyone I love them, instigate a gigantorriffic orgy and then kill myself. Not quite twenty. And the world is not enough.

NOTE TO THE FRIENDLY READER: yes, I am ok. I'm just venting. And I'm not depressed, just cynical and sarcastic.
Actually, what I'd really like is some tea and to bed early. And maybe a little extra space and time for myself. But I know it's not gonna happen. Eh, whatchagonnado?