September 29, 2003 :: 12:42 a.m.
only crazy things should change forever
I can't remember if I used the quote over to the right before or not. I think that maybe I did, but at this point I don't particularly care. It's my favorite one from an episode that I'm not terribly fond of, so whatever. It stays.
So, September's almost over. Scary. I am, as usual, fairly terrified of the future. I need to do so many things, but I just can't seem to get off my ass and accomplish anything. I have enough trouble building up the motivation to complete my homework in a half-assed fashion; forget about trying to figure out six months from now. School is growing steadily more unpleasant, and I'm ashamed of my performance. I'm getting Cs. I am getting fucking Cs. I don't think I've ever gotten a C in my entire academic career, and here I am, getting C's in Drawing and 3-D. I don't even know what to say. And I really don't know what's worse, the fact that I'm getting Cs or the fact that I just can't seem to care. I'm very bad at making myself do things that I don't have an interest in. I'm doing fine in Anthro and Creative Writing, because hey, interest abound. But the art classes are kicking my ass and calling me Nancy, and I'm letting them, because for some reason I just... don't care. I don't like it. It doesn't spark anything inside, doesn't pique my interest or get me excited to learn new things. What it does, actually, is make me hate and revile art with every part of my being. You may have noticed the lack of art updates lately. Well, there you have the cause. The person writing this is not the same person who drew those things, because the person who drew those things had a desire to create, to imagine, to bring ideas into being. The person who is writing this now has no such desire. The person who is writing this now would like nothing more than to dump all of her art supplies into the Susquehanna and then run very fast in the other direction.
And you know, it's sad. I hate that I feel this way. I've always been Art Girl. It's what I do, or so it's always seemed. And being seen that way for so long just naturally leads one to pursue an art-related future, because what else is there? Really. When you've had no talent or recognition of which to speak for all your life except that which comes from your art, your creations, what else is there to do? It's expected, it's encouraged. But I didn't think that I wanted it, so I went to LVC and tried to do something normal. When that fell flat on its face, I thought that it was because I was in the wrong field of study, that art was the obvious way to go and that I'd been stupid for avoiding it. So here I am now, on my way to doing the art thing, and guess what? Once again, it sucked. I hate it more than I hated Statistics. At this point I think I'd rather be a fucking mathematician than an artist, and that makes me so sad. But it's true. And now I don't know what to do, because I am not a girl of many talents. I can draw. I can write. I'm very crafty. I have an exceptionally large vocabulary. But really, I have no other skills. It's art and writing and all those stupid crafting things that are hobbies and not marketable in the least. I am a right-brained person who has come to discover that I don't fit in with the right-brained crowd. Like a fish out of water, only more unpleasant because at least the fish gets to die after a while.
I should totally be in bed right now. I'm not, obviously; I'm not tired. Also, I really have to pee, and it's almost impossible to feel sleepy while trying to hold back a torrential flood of urine.
Hrm. That was kind of gross. Not that gross, though. Pee is far less disturbing to discuss than it's unsightly companion, poo. Pee is even a cuter word, I think. Pee. I like it. It's a happy little word.
Gar. I am so fucked up. That seems to be the consensus around here as of late. My mom saw some things that she didn't need to see, and now she wants me to see a therapist. Thinks I'm clinically depressed and suicidal. Which I'm not. Not suicidal, at least. Oh, sure, I may loathe life about 97% of the time, and I'd be lying through my teeth more thoroughly than "virgin" porn stars if I said that the thought of not waking up tomorrow doesn't seem awfully pleasant sometimes, but I'm fairly sure that I could never kill myself. It's not the pain; it's the finality. Just because I don't love life doesn't mean that I want it to end, not for real. I'm not entirely sure where she got that idea, actually. I know I'm not chipper and perky most of the time, but I didn't think I sent out a suicidal vibe. Hrm.
Yeah. This happened maybe a month ago. I haven't mentioned it because it just didn't seem worth talking about. Also, it was not a pleasant experience, and I didn't really want to rehash it. But there you go. My mother thinks I'm mentally disturbed, and while there's a good chance that she's right, I have not given in to her requests that I get help. She asked my permission to make an appointment with someone, but being a legal adult comes with the very handy perk of being able to deny her that permission.
Anyway, I should sleep. I'm not sure how this entry went from whining about school to "Hey, my mom thinks I'm a nut job!," but there you have it.
'Night.
back & forth
Wait, there's more!
I like pina coladas - March 30, 2005
must... finish... projects... - March 22, 2005
Mr. Postman delivers the good stuff - March 18, 2005
when everything is bad - March 16, 2005
of fruits and menstruation - March 15, 2005