16 May 2000

I am laughing. Rayn is such a fabulous writer, you must read her. The fact that it's incredibly erotic only makes it more clenching. Rayn, I think you'd be a good writer no matter what you were writing about. You know how to use your details, create the picture, allow the reader to live what you are living.

But is it real? I'm still not sure if I can believe your stories. :) I will easily believe anything though.

MSN tricked me into reading an article about careers and if you are happy with what you are doing. They're all so dumb, those articles. Everything I read, I've read before, so what's the point, but still I click, I scroll, I read the article.

Thinking about a job, a career, my future working life has to be up there in the list of things that worries me to no end. It is a pointer of frustrations, of cries, of parental fights, moans and groans, and all over fear. I don't know what I want, so where can I begin to search for it? Half of the pressure (and it's only *me* who puts the pressure on) is to pick something society approving, something I know I can get a job in. The other is people telling me just to major in something I enjoy and worry about the details later. And I have no doubt in the end that things will somehow work themselves out, and I'll be happy with whatever I do--only because I know I won't stop going until I AM in something I want to be doing.

But I like to have goals. I like knowing what I want, what I like, what I value. I like fighting for my rights, my desires. I like having my inner cause, the goal, the incentive. Without one, I feel helpless. I'm likely to spin in circles, retrace old paths, flutter from empty pleasures, and continue to ponder what passions I'm not feeding inside me. I know it's artistic. I can fill out the surveys you can give me the tests. I know what it is. It's in the arts. My mind is in that. But...I doubt, my abilities to succeed. In anything. I *want* passion more than I really have it.

While I was in my design class, I was so impressed with the future curriculum--what other students would soon take, what they would learn, and hopefully end up doing. I wanted it. I wanted to be a designer. A graphic designer, I knew I was attracted to it. I knew the creativity and the working with IDEA was something I *wanted*. But it's not something I have.

What do I have? What I like, I can't do all that well. Or I specialize in one factor, but it's no good unless if you can develop the other shades of the circle. But I can't. I can't, I won't? What the fuck, I don't care.

I don't care? Don't want to care? Too lazy to care? Too early to care? Apathetic?

Something I have realized lately, that I had forgotten about myself, is how I used to love to read. I used to be reading five books at one time in elementary school, I couldn't get enough of it. Middle school, at least once a week I had finished a book. Media driven as well as more pressing studies lessoned my drive for the book, and my time in college, well free time is spent being the 'net junkie I am, or taking a nap. But lately. Lately, I've been reading. And it feels good. All of a sudden, I don't want to surf so randomly, or respond to emails all day long. I want to read.

I'm tired and I can't be. Lyme Disease. haha, I know I don't but still. I went to bed at 8:00 last night. How do you go to bed at 8:00? I would consider 9 crazily early, but at least a little more doable. 8:00? That's prime time! For a girl who doesn't normally go to sleep any earlier than midnight, and more regularly 12:30-1:00-ish, 8:00 was a strange occurance. I figured I would take a nap at 8:00...get up at nine, work out for an hour, maybe work on my acting lines, take a shower then go to bed. Somewhere along the cranking of my 9:00 alarm, I decided, hey, I'll just go to bed. And I did.

Although, I admit, I awoke at 10:00 with such clairvoyance I almost joked I should get up and slip on some 80s gear and head on over to my Delta Chi party. But I didn't. I worked out the open-eyes and went back to bed. Didn't sleep so well though. Which is maybe, why I'm tired now. But for eleven hours, you would think I would be doing fine.

I need to go see a movie. My party days of Chris and guitar boys, greek frenzies, family get-togethers and what not, have caused me to not see a movie in....too long. I used to go every week. Sometimes, even more. Okay, so movies were the "high school" thing. I mean, we went to the movies, because we couldn't do anything else. But, I always loved the movies even if it was all we could do. The last movie I saw was High Fidelity. It's time for a movie.

I'm sorry. I'm going to go. I'm boring myself, making myself sick. Sick of thinking? Don't get the wrong idea. I'm happy. Really.

That's the problem with diaries and self-analization. Usually you work out the negatives. Why ponder why you're happy? We don't usually waste oure time sitting around and thinking about it. I think that's why James and I have had our problems lately. It's why I'm "worthless" in his eyes. Surely, I don't think he's the happiest camper either. How could he be? How could we be? We take our questions, our mysteries and unhappiness to each other and expect to find joyous tales of..something?

Life-evaluation: Things are good. I'm getting great grades, Heidi (my fuzzie sister) are growing close--just as older friends are fading away, just the way friends should ebb in and out. Sure I complain about boys--but i'm complaining about having too many. It's hard to complain about that. I had my times where I cried like a little girl just for a guy to like me. Can't we all be glad those days are over? ;) Whoo, early days of high school!

My body is in great shape, I'm healthy and capable. Money is low, but still I've got some. That car this morning I stepped right in front of didn't kill me--didn't even get my toes--believe me, this is exciting. I just super glued my sandel strap back into place, like the ghetto girl I am, and ouila (sp.) back to being perfect. Yeah...life is good. Peace out, aglaia.