Think for yourself; 'cause I won't be there with you.

So generally, I try not to write anything in here that has to deal with the negative side of my relationships with people; but this time-fuck it.

Alright, here goes:
I don't care that I am not talking to you, because now I don't have to listen to you talk down to ME ( it's not the other way around, you paranoid jerk.)
I don't care that you started to cry when I told you I didn't want to talk to you for a while, because I know those were crocodile tears-if you were my friend; maybe you shouldn't have talked and talked and talked about me for months-about how I was lazy, manic depressive, a bitch, a failure and a loser. Oh, and also made comments about my family, my beliefs, my other friends, and to my friends saying I don't value friendships.
I do, actually, which is why I stood by your ungrateful, stupid and complaining ass through thick and thin. And there's been a lot of bullshit that you dragged me through and I didn't say a damn word to you-only to have my silence and forgiveness matched with complete disdain and falseness.

What I DO care about at the moment though, is that you almost got us kicked out of the apartment for being a negligent and malevolent host. You can't get drunk and let a part jump from 20 to 40 people, and have then hang out in other renters' public areas, nor let the music blast and have 160 feet stomping around. Thanks for letting ME take that bullet for you, because while you were too drunk to talk to the cops, you sure as hell were sober enough to kiss ass and look real cool to those 25 people in the kitchen. I was home for less than a half an hour and the fact that I'm the one who got reprimanded and warned is some straight bullshit.

And then, after they came, you didn't kick anybody out. WTF? I don't care if you want to be everyone's new buddy, but being arrested and fined and possibly evicted should trump that.

But, what really gets me pissed is that YOU NEVER CLEAN. And you can go and say that this is some sort of revenge for me 'not cleaning at all' during the summer ( which you and I both know is not true because I was home all the time picking up after your parties) but when you tell people that, it makes most think you're just some lazy and vengeful bitch. Which you kind of are. I mean, I thought the mice family(ies) would be enough for you to get out of your bed, covered in soda bottles ( which, btw, thanks for drinking) and a cigarette tray you SLEEP NEXT TO, and help me and the other roommates clean. But, no.
Of course not. You just fucking sit there and let the floor get dirty and blankets get mouse shit on them and everything in the living room is sticky. I cleaned it, and cleaned it. And so did H., harcore, may I remind you. The kitchen is full of mice, and you never put away perishable food, like milk or butter-again, mine. So thanks for letting food spoil. And also for letting dishes from your party sit in the sink for a week, and for not changing the dishwasher, or telling anyone we didn't have any swiffer juice left, so when I got sick of that rotted body smell emitting from the kitchen the other day and tried to clean it, I had to get on my hands and knees to scrub the floors. Also, food you don't eat goes in the trash, or the fridge. Not left on the stove. And when a dish is dirty, you clean it...not place it wherever you like so it begins to rot.
We've all asked you to clean.
But you don't-you leave the house when we're about to start-because your busy. ( Really? you work 15-20 hours a week. I work 30 in the span of 2 or 3 days. I still have homework, and school and friends. I still clean.)
And I end up picking up the slack, because I'm ashamed to have people over because you're so piggish. Thanks for clogging the toilet, spilling hair dye in the sink, letting the toilet rust, and mildew grow in the tub. And also, thanks for leaving half drunk beers out in the sunroom, along with glasses and about 100 cigarette butts. Disgusting.
I'm pretty sure we're going to get cockroaches because of you. I hope they crawl on your bed when you sleep-maybe then you'll realize the value of sanitary conditions.
Anyways, I have a 118.00 and another 28.00 bill to pay because you never gave me the money so I couldn't pay it. So I have that to take care of. Enjoy sitting around in your pigsty.

Oh, p.s. No one needs the heating oil on this early into fall/winter when they sleep. You're costing us money. Money that I'm pretty sure you don't have because you seem to overdraft alot on booze, cigarettes and cash for weed. So please, when I shut it off at 11 or 12 when everyone is in bed; don't get out of your bed to turn it on-it's not just spiting me, it's hurting you too.

And maybe if you unblocked your ears and tried to listen to what people say around you instead of convoluding yourself into thinking what you say is fact and is sincere; you'd know that it's not just me and the other people you've 'outgrown' who aren't too pleased with you. Keep talking about them and their foibles and you're going to be back at square 1.
Also, don't cry to Mommy about everything, because you haven't been giving her the whole story. But I guess,no mother likes to hear how filthy and uncouth their child is.

Ey, yo.

Two months, almost since I last penned an entry.
Life's been busy-mainly because when I'm not at school, trying to figure out math equations, what happened to ancient civilizations and the meaning of my existence; I work thirty or so hours a week in the span of three days.
And thus, the life of a writer. To survive, one must work. To write and create, one must not have the tedious tasks of life whirling around them. F.m.l., am I right?
So basically, here's whats been going on in my life:
I was going to transfer schools, but then I found out that I look like a genius in a good third of my classes-why would I leave that inflated air-space?
I'm planning on studying abroad next year-Ireland. Can I get an amen, brother?
One of my favorite high school English teachers was arrested for doing 'shrooms and got fired-my high school lost a great man due to stupid, archaic mores.
I registered in MA to vote-as a socialist, no less. Hope you enjoy listening to my nonsensical phone conversations, government.
I decided that I'm going to find an asp and Cleopatra myself if McCain wins, dies and then the polar-bear killer gets to be president. Fuck that.
I'm the queen of art history.
I've been doing alright, ok, fair in keeping in touch with people. It could be going a lot better...
I've gotten used to my fingers freezing, the smell of stale cigarettes wafting into my bedroom and giving me the dry heaves, and cleaning up all the messes my roommate leaves around and just letting the sweet, sweet anger build inside of me.
I lost weight, apparently, enough so that I have a sixty and seventeen year old trying to get on my shit. It's weird.
I've been writing up a storm of beautiful half-works.
I realized that I have the unmatched ability to wear a purple polyester dress with stripes, white heels after labor day and red lipstick-at once or all together.
I hate John Lennon, and me and H. are going to have a Christmas party. We're inviting Paul, Elton, George M. and DMX.
Also, no one can outcrazy me. Try it. You say " There's that baby I killed". I say " Well, there's a good chance I might Plath myself senior year". Then you continue my academic advising session.
Yeah.
Fear and respect me.

Blush.

How I love thee, sweet Carlo Rossi jug of Blush Wine.
I can drink you straight from the bottle, by the cupful-anytime, anywhere I am ready for you.
However, sweet wine, it appears you do not care about me and my friends too much.
Combined with that bastard Captain Morgan, Blush, you turned against us and made for quite the deadly combination.
From blacking out, to puking in a handbag, the inability to chew eggs up, to drawing kitty-faces on friends, to encountering very eager 17 year old boys and hardcore sickness and hangovers-You two alcohols really fucked The Crew up.

Adventuring.

I hate mornings, especially when I don't know what time I'm going to be woken up at. Today it was at 9:30 after I went to bed around 4-ish. I had to catch the bus to Davis in about 15 minutes.
It was like Die Hard.
I had to run through my house looking for what could slightly resemble presentable clothing and something to clip my hurr back. And then grab all my junk plus unravel the secret hiding place to get out the 155 dollah, dollah bills for A.
I made it. And I felt like death. I had a sweater on because I couldn't remember if I had a bra on or not ( Thankfully I did), ran into Crazy Mike waiting for the bus, almost cracked my skull open because I didn't hold onto anything as the bus barreled down the path to Davis-and then finally made it and had to wait 20 minutes for S. to get there.
I gave her the money, pulled down her dress like a good grandma because she was just showing too much leg, wished her luck in getting A.'s whatever, and congratulated her on getting the new job all in one fell swoop.
And then leapt back onto a bus, got home-and meet H.'s crew. And they are having breakfast now and I am typing this. They were supposed to make me an egg over easy, but it's alright. I'm going to go back to sleep, forever probably. And if not I'll wake up in an hour and a half and have my own egg/ maple sausage and toast extravaganza. Like how I planned it out at 4 a.m.

"What's that?!"

I found a pair of man-ties on our balcony yesterday. No men live in my apartment, nor were there any male visitors that night. And they got there between 6 and 8:30 a.m.
So...
Seriously, I live in a collapsed continuum, a particle accelerator of oddities.
And I bought a huge cake last night with A. for 8 dollars. It was so worth it, just to see the FAB! Christian fellow ogle it and start a witty repartee with us on the bus about diabetes.

" I think I see the light."

Sweet Jesus, how I love Cat Stevens/ Yusuf Islam.
Nadia gave me her dad's c.d. of Cat's Greatest Hits, and then I saw Harold and Maude.
And then my life changed forever.
Basically, that's it.
I simply wanted to proclaim my deep and passionate love for the lyrics, music, ideals and messages of Steven's music. Past and present, I really like An Other Cup.
He speaks about a whole generation of youth who looked for love, happiness and away to deal with what surrounded them: Depression, Clashes of thoughts, and the usual inability to express what they were feeling.
And I don't think I'm the only one who adores him ( Rod, Sheryl...I'm looking at you.)
Whenever I hear " If you want to sing out, sing out" my heart leaps a bit in my chest.
Thank you so much, Yusuf Islam for making such beautiful things that make my heart-strings vibrate and my brain dance.

Wonderland

No, not the blue line stop.
Nay, this weekend I traveled down the fucking Rabbit Hole of the Space and Time Continuum, where time is actually non-linear, and it's almost impossible to leave.
What to do in such a place?
Drink. A lot. And frolic freely by the ocean, playing with old and new friends, including a seagull and a couple little yip-yap dogs. And some bunnies, crabs and townies.
This is my life. Day-tripping to non-existent places in the Universe, warping and teleporting to the unsearchable recess of the mind with a couple of good friends in the South Shore.
As A. said " What is my life about?"
I don't know, I don't want to know-but I believe it's going to be beautiful and amazing to look back on my youth.

BALLIN'

Job? Yeah, I got one.
Dollah, Dollah Bills? Mad amounts of the green.
Tickets to see The Who? Ch-Check.
Most Extravagant Birthday Rager? Hosted by me and my apartment clique.

Fuck them bitches, Get money.
Damn straight, Biggie's Girl. Fuck 'em.

My humble beginning

At the Assumption Catholic Elementary School there are rules, like a master artist’s studio, about form and order. There should be quiet voices, there should be good, disciplined children in the classrooms, and there should be a show of deference to everyone. That, at least, was how the teachers presented the school to me. A blood red brick building with a massive white cross jutting from the building’s roof, as if Christ had struck the building in a similar fashion as the astronauts did in the sixties with the moon. This was His school, where he would be so upset with me if he found out what a bad girl I was. My parents certainly were disappointed, I was informed, and so naturally Jesus was going to be too. The Assumption School was His, and just look how disrespectful I was acting: I forgot to bring home my “N” papers-“N” as in Not Satisfactory. Age seven and already I’ve failed miserably. What was so terrible though, was that I was not in the least bit scared that I had upset my Savior; I was petrified that my mother and father found out how’ awful’ I was. The school, I suppose, expected me to be mortified that The Messiah had found enough time to be dismayed with my second grade learning, or lack thereof, abilities. My teacher must have forgotten about how Jesus forgives when one seeks forgiveness. However, my parents were not Christ; they do not forgive as easily as The King of kings does.

The teacher was going to attach a note informing my loved family that their only child was a dunce…and a lazy one at that. I had dared to not get those “N” papers signed when it was expressly clear that was my task at hand. Now I had to the face the consequences of my ‘laziness’. She, Miss Dell, was going to write a letter home, stating that I was a bad girl, that I was stupid, that I wasn’t going to get into Heaven( or go to third grade) because...because why?

I wanted to just cry and cry. I was not lazy! I was afraid! They kept telling me that my parents were going to be furious with me, and I could not stand that. It was a fate worse than death: to have Daddy pick me up in his black Ford Bronco and drive me back to our home, only to realize he was not driving his little daughter home…but a not satisfactory liar! He would hand Mama my miniscule purple backpack, and she would reach into the bag only to pull out a mass of red markered papers with a neat and fluorescent post-it that detailed my descent into idiocy and my life as a lying N- paper hoarder. I just could not bear that pain. I had to do something, devise some way to make it through the fiery obstacle course that was second grade.

The seven year old mind is a very fertile land of imagination, and the only way I was going to survive this childhood trial was to imagine a way to save myself from the terrible devolution into failure. There was the option of creating some story that would explain to my parents that there was another Evie Goggins in the class, or that N actually stood for Nice!-That they had to merely sign the papers to recognize how good I was at learning. The only flaw with such an idea was the cursed Post-It, declaring my blunders. Thus, there was only option remaining: make good use of pity and my mind. Perhaps, like Jesus, Miss Dell would recognize my shame and forget about my erroneous ways.

The plan was quite simple. Make good use of my cherubic, babyish features. Speak in a voice befitting an upset child and, most importantly, convince her that I was legitimately distressed. How was I going to pull of the biggest coup the second grade had ever seen? I would need to use every ounce of creativity and intelligence I had acquired in my short life. I was about to begin my life as a writer, as a storyteller, as a creative person.

I slowly walked up to her desk, positioned cheerfully next to the windows bright with buttery sunshine rays reflecting the grimy crayons’ pigments on a nearby shelf. She was busy doing paper work (most likely delighting in her daily ritual of giving me an “N”), and I had to lightly tap her free hand to get her attention. When she looked down at me, I was ready. I was rubbing a chubby hand in my eye, and whispered “I don’t want any more “N”s…please.” She gave a look of bewilderment and then sighed. She was about to begin a speech about how I have to be a good student to not get anymore “N’s” and I was not being a good student. I had prepared for this ‘talk’ too, and launched into, quite possibly, the best acting I have ever performed. “Oh, Miss Dell, please don’t give me anymore “N’s”! My uncle, from Spain, is visiting us, and how awful and angry he will be with me if he finds out that his favorite niece only gets “N”’s! They don’t stand for Nice, either! Oh please, you don’t want my uncle to be mad at me, do you? How am I go-going to sh-show him only “N”’s?” and then a perfect tear fell down my mask of misery.

It felt as if I was a Broadway actress giving an award winning performance. I knew I had melted the icy heart of Miss Dell, and that I was going to be safe from gazing up into the would- be heartbroken and dis-appointed faces of Mama and Daddy- faces which one day I would learn, will never bear that expression in regards to myself. My slate was wiped clean, I felt like Lazarus rising again- I was starting over; no more shame at the hands of that dreadful fourteenth letter of the alphabet-N. Besides proving to be a slick and slippery talker, and an exceptionally bright and clever second grader, I had also shown to be a quick witted and artistic being that could easily conjure up the full power of imagination.

This epiphany that I was among the creative was a miracle. The fact that I knew I was -although many doubted that this and tried to make me believe so- inventive and was unique aided me through many a similar rough patch; it is a comforting thought to know that one is worth having such abilities. How thankful I am that I have been bequeathed such an ability with acting and words is inexpressible; simply stating that I would not be very much who I am today without having been able to have found the path to artistic ingenuity-beginning that one fateful day in second grade- is the most I can string together to display my gratefulness. God only knows how else I could have become the writer that I am today.

AND!

Belgium is essentially no longer a country. Because the legislative branch of the Government could not decide on the different language barriers present in the country.
The Premier of the Country sent the King an official document to dissolve the state, because the Government had split apart and could no longer function. The King, I'm guessing, didn't sign it because in name Belgium still "is". But, it has no rhyme or reason, no government, no anything.
The Chocalitiers must be running wild with no restrictions on milk-fat.
The Horror.
This is what Michael Phelps' superhuman prowess trumped.

I'll be damned if I let Satan ignite me.

The quite peacefulness of being completely alone and undisturbed in the apartment was just broken by a gaggle of Bro-Dudes gallivanting along towards the creepster, hole-in-the-wall bar down the street. Perfect time as ever to do some writing, I think.
But about what. There really isn't much to say, other than the fact, and yes indeed, FACT that I fucking hate Somerville. And I really am my Father's Daughter, I do let my angry feelings get the best of me.
I was always told that 'hate' is a strong word, and to never, ever use it. Alas, this time I cannot heed my elders' warning and thus I proclaim my deep, passioned hatred of this God-forsaken place. Why? No particular reason for hating the location or appearance of Somerville. In truth, I do love to see an Indian pow-wow in Davis Square when I'm on my return here. It's quality imagery. But, what I hate, loathe, despise, et cetera about Somerville are the majority of people that live here.
Besides the businessmen that elbow me en route to work, or the glitter lipstick woman that, apparently, has the ability to go through a Wrinkle in Time and know me; to the point where she showed up one day while I was waiting for the bus to greet me with " Hi, Eve. It's been so long, you look so different" although it was first contact with her, it is a special ensemble of players in the 'Ville who have taken hold of my wrathful attention.
I suppose, in their own words, they hate me; for what reason I do not know. However, they do. And hence, their demonic ( that IS going to far) presence, constantly, in my life.
Slowly it appeared to me, that this crew was beginning to mind fuck me every waking moment. Slowly, but surely. Bullshit here, Gossip mongering there, it could be said. And not even good gossip, which is the very pits! Fucking, I have a lot of different facets to my personality, I thought they'd be more creative than saying I was a stupid bitch. That's so...Peaches Geldof. Srsly.
Anyways, I hate them for living in my new Golden City. For making me feel that I do not belong where I am because they are so filled with genius and truth, that they MUST, MUST be right.
Well, They, You aren't. They ( how childish of me to do this, no?) are hypocrites ( ah, but then who isn't?- Not me) who eat my bargain food. So, while this time, you did Ignite me, Satan; I've been known to drive people to the brink of sanity, throw lollipops at my head, have a backpack throwing tantrum in public, and scream " FAT CUNTS" in my direction. So, I will bide my time, wearing the latest fashions, reading Art Criticism and allowing myself to become Sylvia, and planning my escape from they're clinging grasp of idiocy.
Thanks to David Devant and his Spirit Wife, and the Slovak/ Irish stoicism.
This is all complete nonsense spewing forth from my Brain, to my Temple, to my Fingers, to this nether space.

Get BACK.

Sometimes I think that a headache is a way that the conscience punishes it's owner for disregarding it's advice.
Also, I've found that craigslist.com is fucking weird, unless it happens to be a personal ad of a young man from the UK. So that's pretty ace.

And I might have a job. Finally.
A repeat of the word 'finally', I finally got a lot of what was resting upon my shoulders off. It's feels delightfully good.

Did we mention this?

OH!
Also on the same day, I found out via the world of frappacinos, I am a big jerk.
And Lazy.
And Controlling.
And Domineering.
I'm like Xena. Suck it, Lil' Kim. I'm the Queen B now.

Home Sweet Apartment.

I got back from the homestead in Connecticut at around 10:30. By 11 a.m. my dad found the hookah, the weed bowl, the "Man, I'm starving" drawer and my mom found about 30 alcohol bottles. And then they left. And I miss them very much.
So, long story short.
I feel like a fat kid being caught eating a candy bar at a Fat Farm.
And then I was welcomed home by two of my friends creeping out after my parents left, much like the Munchkins appeared to Dorothy after she rid them of the Wicked Witch of the East. Both examples deal with authority, so I think it is an apropos analogy.
I have mounds of organizing to do. And hopefully catch up on Rolling Stone, and smoking. And then begin my month's painting.
What an odd entry, huh? Jesus Christ, I think sometimes I like writing to no one better than anything else in the world.

So, now my hair is jet black.

Fuck you, L'oreal.
You said that it would make my light brown hair dark brown. And, yes, while it's ALWAYS darker, it shouldn't be black as coal. So thanks for this and making me go out and buy color removal that will probably turn my hair orange or make me go bald. You Bitch.
Err, anyways. On to more pressing matters of the heart.
I am a terrible friend.
I let my best, best friend turn into a mess because I did not think it was my duty to watch over her. Well, I was wrong. It was my duty as her confidante, and her friend, to love her and take care of her. I see that now, now that she's cried in my arms for two hours while I sat in her bedroom, not knowing what to do, because I have no idea as to what has been going on in her life for the past seven months. I used to know her so well, know how to calm her down, make her laugh and also push her buttons. Now, there's a thick stone wall surrounding the person whom I met when I was thirteen. Hopefully, a change of scenery will make her feel more at ease and less stressed. But, I'm not sure. She's so sensitive and depressed that I can't really read her anymore.
I really fucked myself over having lost touch with her. Then again, it wasn't only her that I lost touch with. My favorite uncle, My priests, My other friends, My surrogate grandma, all of them I cut out of my life at appx. the beginning of 2nd semester. I self diagnosed myself with having a small nervous breakdown, and I'm going to go with it. The alcohol poisoning and other blunders in my path of life seem to point to it.
I miss speaking to my Uncle Allan, he was one of the few members of my family that I could truly speak to about...things. Art, our family, life, etc.
I miss speaking to my Priests, I love them so much. Since working at the rectory in 2002, they became like grandfathers to me, and for them to know them goings on in my life I think would make them so sad.
I miss my Grandma. Simply put, She is my Grandma.
And I miss my friends. I never had to hear all this bullshit from them about how terrible I was and how I did things wrong and they never heard that from me. Then I went to college and became, really, a different Eve. And I was ridiculed, and I thought it was fine to pass the ridicule onto friends I left behind in CT.
Sometimes, I really fucking hate living in MA. Many are either full of themselves or such sad sacks that its hard to really be happy. I miss being home with my family, and being simple. I hardly miss not having food in the refrigerator, or paying bills myself.
I hate the competitive streak that also runs so thickly up here, sometimes it seems ironic how it tends to show up in the different relationships I've formed.
Hopefully, I can change a few of these things. I'd like to start writing again, to my uncle and to the priests, and to everyone else. I also want to see more of my 'old' friends. I also want to do better in school this semester. I hardcore dive bombed my gpa last semester and hopefully I can get it back up to a 3.4, or at least a 3.0.
I'm making plans to study abroad in Fall 2009, and in London, maybe at Goldsmiths. Then get an internships at a magazine, and also get a job. But then, the economy is faltering so, I'll have to see how that goes.
I'm thinking of writing a short story about a schizophrenic who gets confused with the 2nd coming of Mary Magdalene.
And also, a few poems.
And I would make this a post script if I knew anyone ever read my journal here, but no one does so, to the hell with it.
I mean my apologizes. When I don't say " I'm sorry" it's because I'm not. Anyone can think what they would like, but it hurts me to see someone who is in my hear hurt. And when I say things I mean them, be that " I'm really sorry, I never meant to hurt you to that extent. And I see what I did was wrong, do you forgive me?" or " I'm your friend, I love you" or " I think you act like an idiot a lot of the time".
Most of what I said isn't reported to the person I was talking about correctly. Maybe it was misheard or purposely misconstrued. But, as evidenced with the latest case of me being a huge miscreant, I always want to be back in my friend's life. And hopefully, they would one day want me back.

The Golden Rule.

It will never cease to amaze me, cliche though it sounds, of how desperate and petty people can be during arguments.
Just because someone is mad does not automatically give them the right to begin a public war of bullshit and slander. Especially when the attacker forgets the one crucial rule to being petty: Know your enemies secrets. Just directing general "fuck you"'s and snide comments doesn't get the job done. Not that I condone jabs and stabs at people, but when it happens, I do like to see it done right. So, get to know your attackee. You never know if a best friend might end up a foe. But make sure you don't let your secrets out. That would be a bad idea. If you were base enough to slip up and let details out...all you could do in a fight would be to defend your actions, to essentially do the dirty work and make yourself look scummy. And that only makes you seem, how to put it, Foolish.

Poor little Rich Girl

I desperately need a job.
I've applied to over twenty jobs since the beginning of June and only heard back from the Gap, who informed me that they were reviewing applications for the next few weeks.
I have student loan debt that's going to amount to over $250,000.00 after I graduate in 2011, and I would like to start saving money up for that and/ or be able to feed myself. But no, it apparently does not work out that way. Which is quite disheartening. I have 'skills' in reception and bookkeeping from a job I had for five years back in CT, and one would think that a job that would involve those skills would be found all over Boston. But not so. No, there's no room for me in the workforce, and I hate it. I hate sleeping all day, because I want to do things. I haven't worked the whole entire previous school year, except for a brief interlude during winter break when I arranged fruit back home. I need money, and while I would hope that writing somehow could pay the bills, it doesn't. Neither does art. Or Russian.
So, I might have to go back to CT for the rest of the summer to make some money. Which would be far from terrible, except that I'm pretty positive I'd be missing some very big things going on up here in Somerville.
And I refuse to work at Starbucks. Because everyone works there. EVERYONE.
If only I still went to church, if only our economy wasn't about to collapse under the weight of massive debt and stupidity on the part of the stock market. Those were the days.

Whatever happened to Johnny Lee Miller?

No one will ever really know. Nor will anyone know why the fuck I was stuck in Malden en route to Davis Square for an hour. Seriously.
But, because of it- the loss of my 5 dollars, and the realization that I should cut down on smoking and drinking because neither effect me much, I did learn one or two things.
First, cabbies are God's gift to human-kind. Wonderful beacons of hope that they are, somehow they ( and especially in tonight's scenario) can calm you down, make you laugh and allow you a few briefs moments of absolute mindless-ness before you pay them and walk up into your apartment, realizing as you trudge up the stairs how very close you came to getting stuck in the middle of Boston on a Friday night with two people drunkenly flirting with each other.
Leading into my second point...
No matter how much one knows that it's a terrible and stupid thing to envy drunken flirting- or more ; it really, truly nags at the being of one's core of how lonely a person can be. Simply because you know it is a temporary period, gone with the last remnants of a high blood alcohol ratio, but it reminds ( me, at least) that those two people are together ( although just for a fleeting moment) and that you, sober and aware of your surroundings are not with someone, or anyone- that at least they are with each other, and not hermit like in a state of 'why me?'.
For the original two questions, I blame it on the American way of life. Miller lost a career due to a lippy actress outshining him, and I was trapped in Malden- which, by the by, is actually a wrinkle in time where my friends and I traveled through Rhode Island and southern Connecticut- because of a need, if a facetious and childish need, to celebrate the Fourth of July and get hammered.

I really am a terrible person.

Sometimes, I really feel bad for people who don't wear make up or know how to correctly dress themselves, and I mean, it isn't like I'm Coco Chanel or anything...but, really? Seriously going to leave the house like that? It may be me, me and my crazy old ideas about being- I don't know, let us say...half way decent- but I earnestly do not understand how some people think that they can rock the unkempt brow, washed out face-with-tooth paste in the corner of the mouth look. Either that, or I have some dignity left for how I look.

Example: Going out on a blind date, wearing a hooded sweatshirt from a choir group, with saggy flared jeans. Except, the pants aren't even flared-because the girl who put them on decided it would be a 'wicked great' idea to roll the pant legs up. And even then, the rolled up cuffs aren't at the same level, and not rolled up neatly. Completing the look was a pair of black, dingy knee socks and sneakers.
At first, I get this wave of " Oh my lord, what is she wearing?". Then, the initial 'what the fuck' flash is followed by a surge of pity. Pity that this girl doesn't care about her appearance, and/ or no one ever informed her of how to look presentable; that she might wander through life never knowing that she looks like an 11 year old boy, or that her mom jeans are slowly turning into relaxed painter's pants, or that generally, no one is impressed immediately with character.

Then...I realize who the person is. Usually, the bad dresser legion is filled with girls who don't care about what they look like, because they 'have a great personality'.
What in God's name is this? She leaves for her blind date at some classy dinner joint and comes back with a new man in tow, still with her goddamned stretch jeans.
Utter bullshit. I hate great personalities. It's the downfall of society.
Why wear a business suit to a job interview, when you can wear khaki elastic waists slacks and fleece? Oh, that's right. To look professional and presentable.
"You mean, I can buy REAL denim? Not Wal-Mart brand Faded Glory whatever the hell it is look a like jeans? No. I don't believe it. Won't be comfortable, and comfortable is key."
Suck it up, buy some real clothes and ditch the pseudo self confidence routine.

Sylvia: An unstable Utopia

There has been a link with creativity and madness since the beginning of time. The art of dance was combined with insanity when the Maenades began their worship of Dionysus, working themselves into a mad fervor, unable to control themselves. Such a connection is a thread that has remained unbroken since the days of the ancient Greeks and their ancestors. Michelangelo Buonarrotti and Van Gogh were both sufferers of mental instability which led to exceptional amounts of depression and in Vincent Van Gogh’s case, suicide. Suicide is a common reoccurrence in the life of creative people, but most prominently in literary artists. The long list of purposeful self inflicted deaths by writers and poets is staggering, but perhaps the most sensational suicide by a writer to date has been that of Sylvia Plath. What makes her death so much more staggering is that it was not a shocking event, at least in the context of her works. While other artists spoke of their “demons” in an unwanted way, speaking only to exorcise the problems that laid heavy on their sickened minds Sylvia Plath relished in her hopelessness.

Plath was a star amongst many other beings that faded past her talent and beauty, but knowing she was popular and gifted was not enough to satisfy her want of glory and recognition. Plath used her mental instability as a crutch, relying upon her breakdowns and suicide attempts constantly for inspiration. After the meager wave that “The Colossus” made after it was originally published, again Plath returned to her personal breakdowns. She became obsessed with her mental disorders and became absorbed in her own traumatic past, writing of her pains and paranoia as Perloff states in Contemporary Literary Criticism, “the attempt to heal the fracture between inner self and false-self system so that a real and viable identity can come into existence.” Plath wrote The Bell Jar in such a way, trying to rid herself of the shy and ‘good’ image she had taught herself to fit into since childhood, and to unveil the ‘real’ Sylvia- the dirty and sexual being she thought herself to be. Esther Greenwood , main character of the novel, desperately attempts to shed her outward cast of ‘niceness’ while still maintaining her inner being-shown so clearly through the novel’s narration, that which Plath wanted to show to the world, the gritty, caustic and self serving woman.

What made her try to squeeze and crush her body and mind into a mould of a “good” person and try to be a stereotypical woman of the nineteen fifties and early sixties stemmed from a childhood filled with sadness and morbidity. Otto and Aurelia Plath do not seem to have been the most apt parents, in truth they seemed to be more focused on their careers and themselves, particularly Aurelia Plath after the death of her husband-the world renowned bee authority and distruster of life insurance. Mrs. Plath decided to fall back on her shorthand abilities and taught at Boston University in attempt to amend the loss of funds because of her husband’s death, while her daughter began to feel the aftershocks of the most terrific disaster to occur in her life. The crushing blow of Otto’s death left an impression on Sylvia that in many ways corrupted both her views of family and men. In an essay published by “The Handbook of Creativity” David Henry Feldman rationalizes that creative beings in a family where there has been parental loss will force the child to make creative outlets and to also seek refuge from the traumatic experiences in numerous ways. For Sylvia Plath her outlet of writing provided the small opening for her real essence to seep out from her plastered visage of happiness and bliss-Plath inner depressed child, inner angry and spite filled daughter. There was little besides her poetry and texts that could ever soothe her of her traumatic past, except Plath’s own deathwish.

“The Bell Jar” and the posthumously published “Ariel” were overflowing with references to death, depression and suicidal thoughts. However, unlike the more subdued collection, “Colossus”, the first and, eventually, last novel Plath wrote was acclaimed, and “Ariel’s” poems have been viewed as her best poetry. “Her poems have the hard focused power of surgical laser beams, once read they’re never forgotten, we’re scarred” wrote Wilfrid Sheed in “The Suicide’s Home Companion”. The completion of the poems was at hand when Plath committed the final act of her triune suicide attempts. The literary scars that so many receive when they read Plath’s final installment of poetry is a deliberate act on the macabre poetess’ part. She knew that her words were filled with a power people had not seen before her, forceful and revealing in a way that was uncommon. She had the order for which the poems were supposed to be published, the order for which the reader of the poetry was to receive their lashes, complete at the times of her death.

Plath knew her work was great, she knew her work had a place in society; and the fact that it was mainly about death and the process of dying showed her risk taking skills. She reveled in her world of doom, as Alvarez phrases her feelings “The more she wrote about death the more fertile her imaginative world became.” The more her imagination consumed her the more her obsession with dying grabbed a hold yet again of Plath’s mind, the process of writing about death was not enough to quench Plath’s inquiries into suicide-she had to experience it. Again, it could not have been a surprise when the news broke that Plath gassed herself in her London flat’s kitchen. Her friends noticed that she was stimulated by risk, and indeed the strength of the work in her final days does show her bursting with energy.

She was enveloped in her own world, pushing away other beings that would stand in her way of reaching her ultimate goal of self inflicted death, her ultimate triumph, her nirvana. The children whom she was entrusted with meant nothing, nor anymore did the praise of her work. She would be praised for her creativity, she would be unraveled like Cleopatra before Caesar to the world in her true form, and she could not wait for the event to occur; “Without self pity… she plunges forward to the “stony certainty”, “the stasis of death.” wrote Richard Locke on her final creative period.

“The moral assumptions behind Sylvia Plath's poetry condemned her to death” writes Joyce Carol Oates, and in truth it was her own assumptions that her twisted and sickened mind was in a state to rationalize the outcome of her attempt to kill herself would be anything but startling lead her to her emotionally outraged poetry. She filled lines with her childhood’s pain, of her hatred for her mother, and of herself, as well as the loathing of her estranged spouse Ted Hughes. All these pangs of cruelty done to this human cannot ever come to a point of catharsis; it will keep growing in front of the creator of the work like a terrible birthmark.

Her utopia was a twisted and gnarled garden of glamour and horrid images. It was to bring her final comfort from the painful thorns that jabbed at her skin and cut her so deeply. She wanted her death to happen and would keep attempting to until her body was laid in a coffin. She was lucky in the adage that “the third time’s the charm”. After suicide attempt mirroring Esther Greenwood’s attempt in “The Bell Jar”, complete with a sleeping pill induced disappearance, and a car crash, Plath manages to succeed in her attempts, “ Dying/ Is an art, like everything else,/ I do it exceptionally well.” wrote Plath herself in the poem “Lady Lazarus”. Her death was a theatrical production, she staged it perfectly. She had achieved her want to be “number one”. With her death, Sylvia Plath even outshone her poet Laureate husband, Ted Hughes; an accomplishment that was worth every moment of the gas seeping into her mind and shutting down her senses.

Her obsessions were what we as society were and are afraid of. Death and dying is fearfully viewed and held up as a strange occurrence. Plath enjoyed dying immensely and to her it was not strange, it was a normal occurrence that happened in her life since she was a small child of eight. She saw that, ultimately, “that the price we pay for life is death” ( Scholes, New York Times). Her living was only going, as she viewed the situation, to become more impacted with death and that which would hurt her more than the suicide; her death was an escape to happiness’ her self-destructiveness a tool from which she had all her ‘important’ work channeled through. Sylvia Plath needed to die; otherwise, the same reoccurring themes of her work would have become redundant to her supporters. Her suicide remains a fresh image in the mind of her readers, she scarred them with a finality that will not heal; much like the wounds she suffered throughout her short and depressing life never healed over for Plath, there was no other way than death. Living was not an option.