Pen name or no?
I use a pen name when I write, simply because I don't use my real name online. And I don't use my real name online because of a scary person who thought it would be fun to cyber stalk me. Also, I enjoy the anonymity (that I can't spell). I've recently become a bit worried about using a pen name because I want to be sure that people know that the writing is mine and not someone else's. Doesn't it make plagarism easier in a forum such as this? I just don't know.
What do you guys think? Are pen names good or bad?
My muse has forsaken me.
I need a new perspective. I need a new perspective because my muse has forsaken me and left me for dead on the abandon, deeply rutted road of literature. For all the times I have wanted to consume him so that he would become part of me, I now want to throw him out with the trash. His eyes elude me; I have nearly forgotten the spark he sent straight through to my heart when our eyes locked for the first time. And those footsteps that I had long memorized? Nothing but faded outlines on the dusty ground. I loathe him more than I love him. I am willing to replace him at the oddest moments -- in the shower or checking my email or putting on my shoes -- but then I remember the swagger, the way the hem of his pants falls at his ankles, the way he slows when he passes me. I remember, faintly, the way he smells and the softness of his body. While it isn't enough to restore the inspiration, it is enough to give me chills.
The madness of Jo
I'm sitting here at work, surrounded by stacks of envelopes and papers, desperately scouring my mind for other things I can use as writing samples. The application process for graduate school has given me more acne, gray hairs, and wrinkles than I care to admit. What in the world happens if I actually get in?
And honestly, when will he open his eyes and realize that it's ME who left him that note? It's almost Christmas. Shouldn't that jackass wish me a Merry Christmas back? I have a better relationship with the FedEx guy than I do the love of my life.
Where is the justice?
I just finished The Ultimate Final Checklist Ever OMG(tm) and it doesn't seem as daunting as it should. There's just a lot of money involved in this application process. Damn them and their money.
We won't think about the tuition just yet.
Fun with emotions; or why I'm giving up on myself
Someone responded to a post I made here awhile back about the opposite sex. To that person I would like to say that I am fully aware that I don't need someone else to be complete. I don't want someone else around for completeness. I want someone around who gets me.
But that's neither here nor there, in the grand scheme of things. For a few seconds in my lifetime, I liked this lovely boy, a musician of all things, who I knew would spell trouble in the end. Trouble, I might add, not of his doing. But of mine. And now there I am, troubled indeed, because he fancies someone who is very thoroughly not me.
And this is why I am giving up on myself. Every time I let myself like someone, it always comes to this. It is very rarely the man's fault (except that one time) and is almost always 100% mine.
I spent the afternoon with David Gray, trying to convince him to step out of my discman and sit with me so we could have a chat. David, you see, would understand.
Am I alone in this?
Well, I know that technically I am not because my best friend shares my opinion on this matter.
Is anyone else disturbed by Gavin Degraw? I am violently, utterly disturbed by him. He freaks me out. I see him and I shudder and not in the OH GOD YES OH GOD OHHHH GOD YESSS!!! kind of way that I shudder when I see someone like, oh, say Howie Day.
I can listen to some of Gavin's songs and be okay with them. But for the most part, he just disturbs me. I feel like covering my bits and pieces with my hands when I see him on tv. Like he can see right through to what I'm wearing underneath my clothes. And my endless story is reserved for someone who isn't Gavin Degraw, thank you very much.
Boys will be boys
And bachelors will be bachelors.
I had a long post typed up about someone I work with and how he is, but then I realized it isn't fair. I'm weird. I have my quirks. I'm sure I'll be single far into my thirties, so I shouldn't bag on my coworker's lack of companionship.
And now I'm incredibly lonely.
Get back, ye demon of drama!
Yesterday at lunch, as I was leaving the eating establishment with my brown paper sack filled with a wonderful sandwich and a small bag of chips (barbecue), I decided to eat outside since the sun had come out and there was no one sitting at the tables on the sidewalk. Just as I pulled out my chair, I heard someone call my name. I turned to find someone I hadn't spoken to in months. Someone with whom my last words were not friendly. We began chatting and he sat down with me while I ate. Or attempted to eat.
This person produces piles and piles of stress in my brain. I begin to freak out and remember all the things that have happened between us and between our friends in the past. I hear a loud sucking sound as my will to live drains from my body.
This, in addition to recent other dramas involving another of the male species, is too much for my mind to handle. I shut down. I stop eating. I endure the rest of the conversation. I let him walk me to the corner near my office. I let him hug me. I swallow the lump in my throat. I go back to work and I cry. It takes me nearly two hours to finish my lunch.
And today I feel drained.
This post really has no point.
Here's some good news though: I've almost decided what to do with my life. You know, at the ripe old age of 26. I figure by my birthday (in two months), I'll have goals and everything.