The weather is getting worse and worse. I keep trying to find reasons to leave my bed, but laziness means never having to bestir yourself. I put strings of Christmas tree lights on my bed and now it’s the holidays, no matter what my finals Monday and Tuesday might think. I’m going to sew my beanie to my head so I never have to take it off. I’ve considered that this may do something noxious to my hair, but if I never take off my hat, it might not matter. Right? That is how logic works?

Seriously–it’s rainy and cold, even if that means it’s only 42 degrees outside as opposed to somewhere in the negatives. Still not a fan of it.

No. Okay, I have to go be a grad student. Wish me luck I guess.



I’m at a weird point in my life, because I graduate in May and I have no idea what to do next.

I have no plans. I have no real goals. I have no idea where I want to be, or what I want to be working towards. (Well, I want to be a writer, and I’m trying to work on that–but unless and until I can find a way to make enough money to support myself from that, it’s not something I can just do.)

I have…kind of a lot of money saved up, and I’m restless. I might just go traveling, because–why not? What is there to stop me?

I keep picking things to work at because they seem like the next logical step in Making The Best Of It, but that’s not working anymore. I’m just…I have no idea what the hell to do next. It’s weird, and it’s not awful. I’m really privileged in a lot of ways to be able to consider anything other than getting a job to make money to live on, and I know that; might it be worth it to actually use the privilege, instead of just feeling guilty about it all the time?

Maybe I’ll join Americorps, or something. I don’t know. There’s got to be something to do out there other than try to make the best of it.

Maybe I’ll just give it all to charity and get a job.

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” people say. I’m not even sure I have any eggs left, at the moment.



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I was going to blog yesterday–I had a whole post all planned out, no lie–and then I had to pick up my mom from the airport, and then I got hooked on Farscape again because my friend said she had the bit of it that has the happy ending that isn’t on Netflix, so now I can finish the series. Mostly, as you can tell, I just straight-up forgot.

On the plus side, it means that I get to reuse what I was going to post about yesterday, which is the book Far Far Away by Tom McNeal, and–I’m really lazy so I’m going to just straight-up paste in the email I sent J. about it yesterday.


it’s set up like this mystical fairy town, where people keep mysteriously going missing and there’s a really awesome baker guy who makes these magic prince cakes and one bite makes you fall in love with the next living creature you see.

our hero, jeremy johnson johnson, has Had A Difficult Time Of It because of course, he needs some money to save his bookstore/apartment thing. he ends up playing a prank on the baker guy because a girl told him to basically and then the whole town is like Ugh No Jeremy=Satan. very sad for poor jer. (emy.)

SO ALSO jeremy can talk to ghosts, in particular the ghost of jacob grimm of brothers grimm fame, blah blah fairytales, blah blah narrative structure, blah blah. there’s a quiz show called uncommon knowledge that is conveniently going to pass through their town and BAM JEREMY TALKS TO THIS ONE GHOST so he has uncommon knowledge about the brothers grimm. also he’s fifteen so the hosts are like yeaaaaaahhhhhh teen viewersssss yeahhhhhh

so he loses, because the very last question is about disney snow white as compared to actual story!snow white, and like goes home to be sad or whatever. sad jeremy in snow. sad jeremy with no house at all, very sad.


okay so nice baker guy is all “aw you were just playing a trick, you didn’t mean anything bad, sorry, let me give you some work since you got fired from all your odd jobs because everyone here sucks, let me be a paternal figure at you and ginger” (ginger’s the girl) and so they do that and it’s all very heartwarming and then BAKER DUDE FUCKING KIDNAPS THE SHIT OUT OF THEM WITH POISONED SMOOTHIES???? AND PUTS THEM IN HIS BASEMENT???? AND TRIES TO KILL THEM?????!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?




and like i’m reading this going “lalalala, hope somebody breaks the curse soon/jeremy learns about the power of love/all the kids get turned back from frogs or whatever the evil magic curse on the town did” and then WHAT THE FUCK, POISONING, WHAT

ghost narrator is just like “drat,” basically. “lalala, i write fairy stories, false sense of security, PSYCHOPATH MURDERER BAKERS, drat.”

who the hell did the marketing for this book, is what i am asking. the title bit is just “in a small town where nothing ever happens, everything is about to change.” the last line of the synopsis on the back is “together, they discover that sometimes far, far away is much closer than you think” which okay, yes, i can see the signs now, but when it was just like “and then suddenly poisoned smoothies!” i nearly had a panic attack because what


this has been another episode of “aren’t you glad you’re friends with me so emails like this can happen to you”




(stick with what you knoooooowwww)

(actually do the opposite of that probably)

Lately I have developed a habit I kind of enjoy, which is I invade the kitchen, catch my roommate there, and then talk to her for a long period of time until I am done eating. I cannot tell if she is getting as much out of this as I am (vaguely positive social interaction for the day), but she’s related to me and I pay rent to her mom, so there’s very little she can do about it.

She’s decorating the house like a Christmas fairy tale wonderland. My dad died on December 14th; all this crap makes me uncomfortable as hell, but I go with it, because that’s how you show you are well-adjusted. Also it is how you show you are capable of respecting things other people care about even when you are at best ambivalent to the whole process.

I don’t care about Christmas, really. I like giving my friends things, and I like being on what passes in adulthood for vacation, but all the peace-on-Earth-goodwill-towards-men stuff is kind of…Well, when you’re going to yell at someone for wishing you “happy holidays” instead of “merry Christmas,” clearly you are not working on the goodwill bit very much at all.

Don’t listen to me, though. I had ice cream for dinner. I know very little.


This titling-by-date thing is getting a bit weird now that the new blog format puts the date right next to the title, but I don’t care.

What did depressed people do before they could just spend the entire day clicking on things on the internet? Well, I guess they wrote The Bell Jar.

I have somewhere to be, but I don’t want to go. I’m bribing myself with fancy sugary coffee, but I don’t want to go fetch that, either. Whine whine whine. Surely one of these buttons will make me get out of bed and go do things.


Heyyyy, kittens.

The weather has gone back into the sixties, with approximately 87% humidity (according to Accuweather. Cite your sources, kids). Whatever that means. If it means anything other than “awful.” I seem to be allergic to it, or at any rate I have woken up feeling allergic to almost everything, so that’s–where I am at the moment; how are all of you?

I would like this blog to be a participatory experience for all of us, in which I get to be humorously mean about things and you enjoy it and I tell you about my casual daydreams of knocking irritating people unconscious with the heavy end of my thermos and you don’t tell anyone. There: I’ve filled my end of the bargain; it is up to you to keep me out of internet jail.

Have you ever been that kind of tired where you keep realizing your eyes are open slightly wider than usual in an effort to not fall asleep? That is me right now. I feel kind of like a tiny stupid baby animal all stumbling around bumping my head into people and table legs and walls and other stuff that keeps being slightly not where I expected it to be. (Especially table legs. I’m more than five feet tall; I should hardly ever be running my head into tables at all.) I feel, in essence, like I woke up without the usual shield mechanisms, and have to rebuild them with caffeine and cynicism as soon as possible, before I get squashed by something.

Conveniently, the other side of this is a tendency to want to go from “disinterested” to “furious” in about a second and a half, so I’ll probably make it through okay.

Let us pray. Pray that I will get to go on a beach vacation for like the rest of the month of December. I have it all planned out: I will bring alcohol, books, something to write with, and some painting equipment. I will sit on the beach drinking margaritas out of a thermos and muttering about lighting and landscapes. J. has signed on, though he is insisting on absinthe and Pernod, and I hate the former and don’t know what the latter is really. (Wikipedia says it’s absinthe. Well, that’s confusing.)

You come too. You can bring the snacks. I like salty crunchy things.



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Okay: once again, time for me to make a concentrated effort to post every day. (Why? Who knows. It takes thirty days to make a habit and twenty to thirty minutes to procrastinate just long enough for the little voice in the back of my head bitching about all the stuff I don’t want to do to shut up, so here we go.)

It’s December. Well done, gregorian calendar! Well done, those of us who survived the holiday season without any extra criminal charges! I am separating Thanksgiving and Christmas into two holidays, as otherwise I would just have to drink from now until January 3rd. (Everything’s still shiny on January 2nd. All hopeful and shit. I like to skip straight to the “oh hey everything is exactly the same as it was [x] days ago” part; it’s slightly less disappointing.)

It is very cool to dislike the holiday season and to be suspicious and slightly resentful of your family. It is very in right now. I cannot say I do not enjoy it a little. I do not enjoy how it makes everyone think you’re friends because of the sacred bonds of not being entirely sure you want to spend upwards of fifteen hours around people you don’t speak to for the rest of the year. However, energy can be neither created nor destroyed, which I guess means all the liking-people with which the end of the year used to be imbued has to go somewhere.

I have got presents for everyone but my mom. They are quite good presents. It helps that I have removed two people I didn’t like or, really, when it came down to it, know very well, and so can spend my money and time on the rest of them. (Admittedly I’ve added four others, but I like them. One is a nephew, who is six and so adorable and easy to shop for. I’ve no idea what to get his mother, but I will set the time-delay charges under and run away from that bridge when I come to it. I can get across the river in a boat, probably.)

This holiday season, I am mostly planning to put on increasingly larger amounts of makeup and stranger and stranger clothes and sit in corners drinking the wine and exchanging sardonic glances with people who really only meant to convey that they find my wardrobe mildly disturbing with that eyebrow raise just then. Togetherness makes me nervous. That is probably the most accurate thing I have ever written about myself.


Woke up this morning missing Cleveland.

Well, okay–woke up this morning feeling really excited about how I didn’t have to be anywhere for like three more hours; read an email from a leadership thing I did while I was in Cleveland over the summer and now I’m missing Cleveland. And Boston, kind of, from when I was there a few days ago, and I guess mostly just the places I’ve been where I got to carve out a little life all on my own.

I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I miss the public transportation, and I miss Ohio City, and the giant free art museum, and the lake, and not really the job but a little bit and definitely a few of the people I was working with; I don’t miss being hugely depressed and uncertain about what I was going to do with the rest of my life, but hell, around here we mostly call that “every other day,” so.

I miss hatewatching reality shows with my roommate and trudging to the supermarket as infrequently as I could manage. I miss my roommates in general, because they were neat, especially the one who worked with me.

It’s gray and cold and raining here, and there’s not very much to do except for school and work and endless misery. I’m probably romanticizing a little bit. But still.



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Remember that stretch of daily posts I did back then? Three whole days ago or whatever? That was neat.

This paper is due in eleven-ish hours and I just don’t care anymore. This other paper is due an hour and a half after that and nope. My basic game plan at this point is to run away to Monaco, or whatever the gambling city is, and lose all my money playing roulette with scary Bond villains, and I’m not sure what step three is but it’s probably better than avoiding writing papers until the last possible minute and then still avoiding them because they’re gross.

(Sorry, Mom.)

It’s been kind of a weird weekend in that I have done nothing of any value to anyone save myself. I went and saw a movie with a friend last night, an endeavor that took approximately six hours in total because we got dinner first and it was a long movie. I’ve read the free online version of three novels, give or take. I caught up on my favorite new TV show (Sleepy Hollow, which, just give it a try, do it for me). I thought about getting an undercut, a nose piercing, and several more tattoos. I hung out with my cat, which was nice except for when it was irritating.

I didn’t write a blog post because it would have just been boring lists of stuff I did instead of the work I was supposed to be doing.

And–okay, this blog is for me way more than it’s for other people, so: I had a good weekend. I do not think I would have done anything differently except that I would have somehow arranged for my brother not to die two months ago, or I would have arranged to have a better support network or to be better able to trust the support network I have. Ideally I would not have gone crashing headlong into a depressive spiral that lasted for at least four weeks of the bare minimum of effort, and then ideally I would not have had another one several weeks later.

Ideally I would spend a great deal less time clinging on to the edges of things by my fucking fingernails and instead I would be much more able to, I don’t know, get a damn grip. But–I haven’t jumped off a bridge yet, and I’m sticking to the decision not to.

It’s not ideal, but, you know. Meh.


We at the nation of Keep Your Shit Together are out of wine, ha ha.

This is what is called a “hard reset.” If you drink, oh, an entire bottle of red wine or an equivalent mixture of red and white wines, you will be very drunk, you will grouse to your friends about your life or your lack of a love life or whatever the constant minor misery that endlessly plagues you both on its own and because you cannot just get over it already is, and then you will wake up feeling better.

If you actually have a life, by which I mean you have people to meet somewhere on Friday nights or, well, ever, this may not work. But it probably will.

I seem to have: made a text message pact with my friend J. to get married if we’re both still miserable in fifteen years; spent several hours talking to my roommate about God only knows what, but I think we’re, you know, friendlier now, instead of just related; smoked one of her cigarettes; made something that I remember was delicious, but I don’t really remember eating; sent a picture of the empty wine bottle to E. on Snapchat with a caption I also can’t remember but seemed to at least be along the theme I’d been using for the rest of the day, so let’s hope that was non-awful; tried to convince the cat to stop lurking in the dining room crying under a chair and to instead actually come all the way into the kitchen and be sociable; and gone to bed at nineish feeling not entirely terrible about myself.

Generally when I get drunk first I get really sad, or some version of mopey, or something, and then I manage to convince myself that I’m cute and witty and so will not die alone. I have sent J. some version of this text message probably twelve times. Poor J.

A reasonably successful endeavor, anyway. Well done me. Cookies for everyone. Except not, because I don’t have any.