|
Cam_S
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Cameron
Country: United States
State: Missouri
Birthday: 9/10/1986
Gender: Male
Interests: Psychology, Mythology, Politics, Philosophy, Cinema, Theatre, Games, Forteana, History, Music
Expertise: Creative Writing.
Occupation: College Student
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  Psi3768610
Member Since:
2/6/2004
|
|
| Put both myself and my computer in autistic mode to handle grad school apps. The death of my hard drive proved to be a blessing in disguise--it wiped my bookmarks and my game software from my machine. Put my television and game console in the living room. Turned of AIM and all other distractions. Forgot to eat for a couple of days.
I started my applications on Sunday. most are due tomorrow. They're all currently done and paid for. I just hope my rec letters are on their way.
While I was holed up in my room like a hermit, developing an ulcer and drowning it in beer, coffee, and other such things, my roommate got a cat. The house now smells like litter box. Thus, I've retreated into my room to chainsmoke the smell out. It might not be an improvement, but I can take the scent and it cover up the odor of cat urine and fecal matter.
It's cold. Really god-damned cold, and I haven't written anything in the past couple of days, though my fingertips feel sore from typing out the same information ad infinitum. Sometimes I forget that the little black marks in front of me are supposed to be words.
I feel hungry and dehydrated; I'm going to go fix that, now, but I just know that I'll get that smell in my mouth when I go to eat and drink.
I need to get out.
All I need to do now is send off my final manuscript sample and wait for acceptance letters. Then I get to work on my thesis.
| | |
|  
I don't have permission to put this up, but I wanted to.
| | |
| I hate coming on here only to angst, but I'm putting my meaningful stuff on Being & Context now, so that's that.
Angst. It's a word that's pejorated somewhat, but I'm using it in an older sense: a profound and deep-seated spiritual condition of insecurity and despair.
Before I begin, I want to make sure that you know I'm not referring to my work here--at least not monolithically. But I wonder: if I can't find a human being who accepts me, how can I expect my work to be accepted?
I'm coming to the conclusion that I will never have a meaningful relationship with a woman beyond mere friendship: whenever I try to move further, I inevitably fail, and I inevitably break myself in the attempt. This has happened dozens of times, and I have no success stories. It's rare that I receive even so much as a smile or a platonic hug. I am no more successful with women now that I'm a senior in college than I was when I was a freshman in high school.
Extrapolating from what has happened before, I'm going to die alone wrapped in a rosary of failures that turned to chains.
God, no wonder I don't advertise this Xanga's existence.
The fact of the matter is this: I feel like a diabetic on Halloween. I feel like a color-blind child lost in the Louvre. I don't know how to fix this. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I feel like I've tried everything, and everything just fails on me. The worst part is that I know my friends sympathize, but there's no way they know exactly how I feel. I'm lonely as all hell, and it scares me; I have no idea what real intimacy feels like. I don't know what it's like to feel the affection of another human being, to know what it's like to be devoted and to feel that devotion accepted.
Last night, I was up until 5AM, trying to calm my mind, trying to trick myself into feeling like things would be alright long enough to fall asleep. I barely got four hours of rest, and it was interrupted by cramps.
I don't want to be J. Alfred Prufrock; I don't want it, but nothing's going to take that feeling away. It's getting very hard to go on with this mockery that is my social life--maybe I should just become a hermit and throw myself into my writing. At least then, I'd only have one problem.
| | |
| Hey, folks. Got a new blog:
http://beingandcontext.blogspot.com/
I'm still keeping my Xanga, though, for personal notes. "Being and Context" is for more theoretical stuff.
| | |
| To wound the autumnal city.
So howled out to the world to give him a name.
The in-dark answered with wind.
| | |
|
