reflection
A few minutes ago, I was looking in the mirror in the EMU bathroom, combing my hair and feeling sorry for myself, when a girl came in. She was wearing leather and her hair was shaved off. She washed her hands, shouldered her bag, and walked out. She didn't look twice. She didn't stop and feel sorry for herself. Or, if she did, I couldn't tell.I was just putting on my makeup, covering the circles under my eyes and pushing the hair back off my forehead. As the girl in leather left, I pictured myself inside of her. I saw me with a shaved head in a leather jacket, leading a life confined by an entirely different image demographic. Could that be me, not stopping to look in the mirror? What am I, anyway? A middle-class, intellectual, somewhat vain, wanna-be anorexic, pseudo-spiritual, malcontent liberal-arts student? Is that the extent of my stupid demographic? I can add a few more adjectives but they all just make me more sorry for myself. And more tired. I'm bogged down by the weight of all these words.

Am I only what other people see?

I passed Luis in the stairwell on the way to class. "How's it going?" he asked me. "Oh, OK," I said. But my brain yelled, "It's going SHITTY, Luis, I'm tired of jumping through everyone's fucking hoops and I have no one to thank for all this pissy moodiness but myself." I'm not lying when I say I'm fine, but I'm not telling the truth either. I'm never going to be content with what I'm doing, who I'm with, or where I am. I think the only serenity I find is spoon-fed to me in yoga class and artificial serenity doesn't last too long.

At least there's still irony in my life. Friday I made an ass of myself in front of the professor of my Fiction writing class, of whom I'm not too fond, and when I got home I found out he'd nominated me for a "prestigious university award." Last night, I spent $25 on photocopies for the same stupid class. And the fact that it was my own fault I didn't figure out how much it would cost before I got there or put the effort into doing it a cheaper (or free) way was enough to make me severly depressed. Stupid money. Fucking commerce. I'm so sick of being poor and overworked and tired as hell and never really getting any reward for the shit I put myself through.

And. And. And And and and and and andandandand&&&&&&..... I love that word. It puts all the pieces of the universe together.

I don't feel like writing here any more. I don't feel like waking up.