Verbal Diarrhea

Looking at myself in the mirror today - I've lost a little weight, and there are definite lines under my eyes. Those go away when I start sleeping again, right? I need a haircut. I look....ragged.

I came home tonight for an early doctor's appointment in the AM. I made it in just after 11pm, and found evidence of life, but no one was up. Tomorrow I'll be outta here, still without seeing an actual human member of my family. It's like the world's best hotel....they taped ER for me, left out my mail, and the fridge was stocked. Tomorrow some lovely ladies and I are going to a friend's fashion show (she's a fashion design major at Marist) in New York, I'm not clear on if this is City or State.

Ok, so the title. Whenever I do or say something I regret, it usually has to do with having said the wrong thing. Or way too much of it. A friend coined the term "verbal diarrhea"....and you all know why. The messy, obscene, completely uncontrollable spewage of words and ideas and stream of consciousness that have the potential to just destroy everything it touches. Are you just a little sick to your stomach yet? Because I was when I typed it.

It's 1:20am, dead quiet here (at home), and has been that way since at least 11. Last night the natives were restless until at least 2 or 2:30. Bed is calling me....



I fixed the myspace link.

I Just Figured it Out

I act really confident because it's just a more efficient way to get positive attention.

I'm way more of a girl than I'd like to admit sometimes.

Holy Shit, 4 Years?

I just realized that I'm working on Year 4 of this blog. Daaamn.....how many other people can honestly say they kept a working journal (almost) all throughout 4 years of college?

Semester One is missing, I didn't start this until March of my freshman year. I remember spending maybe a little too much time in my dorm room, hanging out with Jess, choir practices, discovering UCTV, and spending Sundays at my brother's. I'd try not to look at the bong in the middle of the plywood board held up by cinder blocks that passed as a coffee table. We'd watch, in a row, Futurama, The Simpsons, The Sopranos, and that Larry David show that came on right after it, can't remember the name. I'd come home reeking of the weed I didn't smoke and maybe some of the beer I didn't drink. I was either oblivious, too sure I'd do it the wrong way when offered, or just not uncomfortable enough to ever take a hit. For better or for worse, I was Melch's Little Sister, and I was the innocent one. I'm glad. I'm glad I was able to sit there every week and not feel like I needed to take a hit to fit in - I could stay my naive awkward little self, and that was fine. I was conscious of being different from everyone else there, but it didn't matter. I conclude that potheads are friendlier than drunks. But then, we all knew that.

I'm reading a book Julie picked up in the co-op - it's called Smashed: The Story of a Drunken Girlhood. The title is pretty self-explanatory. The author started drinking at 14, under pressure from the best friend she idolized. For at least the next 8 years (I'm not done yet, she's just graduated college), alcohol seeped into every aspect of her life. The more I read, the more I want to shake some self-confidence into her, and yell at her that This Isn't Life, that she's too weak, that she clearly made all the wrong decisions, etc, etc. It's too bad that doesn't really work. You can't bully someone into doing what you think is right. It does shed some light on the whole clique thing though...I've always been a little fascinated by watching how people interact with each other and form relationships. What I'm finding is that we pick people we want to be like, or people who validate us. And obviously, we all want to fit into something...even if the thing we're fitting into is just someone else's attempt to fit in. How many true originals are there out there, really? Hell, I can't honestly say that when I bought the UConn sweatshirt I'm wearing right now, the desire to own one wasn't driven by anything other than seeing other girls in them.

I'm on duty, it's Good Friday, and it looks quiet. It sounds pretty quiet too. I'm 3.5 hours into my solitary confinement at the duty station, and thinking hard about the sandwich in my fridge upstairs. I found some pictures on my friends' yahoo albums that I didn't know existed, which is kind of like finding buried treasure. If there's a picture above this post, that's where it came from.

Hey, it's new to me...

So I just discovered the music of Anna Nalick, and that the reason one of her songs sounded so familiar is that it's already been overplayed on the radio for awhile, and is probably past its prime. Figures, that's what happens when you don't listen to any top 40 or pop stations, or watch MTV, or et cetera. She's my new goddess. Well, for a few songs she is.

Semester's winding down. I'm looking around this tiny little dorm room, that has more personality squeezed into one corner than my whole room at my parent's house. I guess I should do some kind of send-off closure type thing, take some pictures, something to remember who I was when I was 21 and about to graduate from UConn.

In the interest of not sounding sappy and melodramatic, I'm done for the night.