10/26/2011

I actually felt like writing today, but now that I am here, I have nothing to say.

I got my dog exactly a year ago Sunday.  Right now, she is chilling in the living room, lying on what has become “her” loveseat.  It is hard to believe it has been a year.  It feels both longer and shorter.  All in all, I think she is a pretty good dog.  Hyperactive, and prone to coprophagia (which is a nice way of saying she eats shit), but I think I like her. 

My sister was approved for a house she wants to rent.  It is about 40 miles from the nearest “city,” located in the woods and right on Lake Superior.  The surrounding country is gorgeous—I’ve been through the area numerous times.  The idea of living in the middle of nowhere sounds appealing.  Pepper would have a huge yard to romp in, and I wouldn’t have to deal with neighbors and their fucking annoying children.  Granted, being so far away from town will be a challenge in terms of commuting to school, but I think it’s manageable.

I spent three hours today doing chemistry homework, berating myself for being such a fucking moron.  I wonder if there will ever come a time when I do not feel like a fucking moron, like a giant fucking failure.

I had a chemistry exam last Friday.  The class average on the exam was a 61%.  I got an 83%.  Instead of being pleased that I scored 22% higher than average, I was disappointed that I didn’t manage to get an A.  In Biology, we had a practical last Tuesday.  The class average was a 55%.  I got an 85%.  Again, disappointed because I didn’t get an A.  “How stupid all my professors must think I am!  How dumb I look!  All the freshmen, those little kids, are doing better than I am.  I should be doing better, this should be easy, you stupid, ugly fuck.  This is a freshman level course, you’re a graduate student, get your shit together!”

And on and on and on.

I wonder when I’m going to start doing things right.  You’d think an almost-25-year-old would…have her shit together.  But I don’t.  At all.

Most days, I am completely indifferent to my continued existence.  I envisage car accidents, bus crashes, shooting rampages, explosions.  I do not remember the last day when getting out of bed and “living” was something other than a chore, something I must do.  Not because I want to, or because I enjoy it, but because I have books to shelve and bills to pay.  I have pets to feed, and floors to sweep.  There is shit that needs doing, and I’m the only one who can do it.

Is living supposed to be more than a list of inane shit that must be done every day?  Because that’s what my whole life has been, just inane shit. 

There is no joy in this.

 "Old incisions refusing to stay, like the sun through the trees on a cloudy day."-Silverchair, "Without You."