Friday, June 27, 2008

Yo, A.C., what's up with your blogroll?

I know you're wondering.

What's a 25 year-old student doing reading mommy (and daddy) blogs?

Perhaps you think that I am desperate for a child of my own? That couldn't be further from the truth. In fact, I have almost no desire to raise a child, to pass on my crazzy genes or to spend my life being responsible for someone else. I think kids are wonderful...but I don't want one.

The answer: because the people who write those blogs are awesome, for realz. Seriously...the folks that write the blogs that I love to read, they cover it all. They're funny, they're in touch with a whole huge range of emotions and they convey them so well. They make me laugh out loud.

Perhaps they have a plethora of experiences to write about. Maybe being parents has given them the ability to embrace their fear, joy, anger, whatever.

I don't really care why...I'm just glad they're doin' their thang.

As I was leaving for work today...

A.J. called from the bedroom: "Hey buddy...can you bring me a cat?"

Thursday, June 26, 2008

A day at work...

Dear Dr. ___,

I received your forms and the forms of your coauthors, but they did not fill out the forms correctly [ did not check "yes" or "no" under the conflict of interest section]. I will need you to resend their forms. Thank you.


(From Dr. ____)

Dear Dr. ____:

Unfortunaltely, no. I cannot fill out the forms; they must be filled
out by the authors.

Thank you,

(From Dr. ____)

Ok, you can send them emails. They can do the marking and fax it back

Dear Dr. ____,

As corresponding author, you are to take responsibility for the forms of all of your coauthors. It is not my job to obtain these forms. You can either obtain the forms, filled out correctly, or I can pull your manuscript from publication. You choose.



(I didn't really send that last one)

I got this great idea to forward the snotty emails to the other authors when requesting their signatures. Dr. ___ may have gotten his way in that I ended up doing his work for him, but his coauthors got to see how much of a tool he can be. Yahoooooo! I win!

I'm sure you've heard about...

the teen pregnancies in Gloucester, Massachusetts. I read about it a couple of weeks ago and I was pretty horrified. I don't know, though, what horrifies me most about it...

When I was 9 years old, the boy who lived next door (also 9 years old) convinced me to fool around with him. We went out to the hunting blind in my neighbor's yard and I let him touch me, for a very long time. It felt wrong, but I did it anyway, because (and I'm still like this) I have a hard time saying no to people. I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

Later that same night, an ocean of guilt washed over me and, paralyzed by shame and fear, I let hot tears roll down my face while my mother listened to me and rubbed my eyebrows until I fell asleep.

The shame I felt over that incident was enough to keep me away from any sexual experience until I was 16 and to hold on to my virginity, in a vice-like death grip, until I was 20. I have no regrets about that...I waited until I knew I was ready.

When I think about 15 year-old girls being pregnant and probably scared and probably completely ignorant of the responsibilities they'll face, I can't help but wonder what the hell is wrong with the world.

Do these girls want something to fix them? Do they not feel loved enough? Do they think it's cool or mature or interesting? Or, are they really ready for children? Do they know, at such a young age, what they want? (And even if they do, do they understand the difficulties of raising a child while pursuing an education?)

I think they're probably just products of a society that stresses being intensely sexual while failing, for the most part, to talk about it openly.

Monday, June 23, 2008


"I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again." -Oscar Wilde

I change my mind often. Sometimes, I think I know how I feel and then I find out otherwise. Sometimes I tell myself I should feel one way when I really feel another and it causes me intense misery.

It's been a really long, hard week and I'm exhausted. I haven't had the motivation to write much on this here blog, though I haven't felt unmotivated enough not to care.

There was a time, recently, when I felt completely at ease and okay with everything. I wonder, often, when I'll feel that way again. Perhaps those times are few and far between and I have mistaken the nature of things and have arrived, falsely, at the conclusion that most people are really happy most of the time. It would not surprise me to find out that I've constructed a make-believe world around me in which I'm the unfortunate one. I tend to be that selfish.

I know, for sure, that much of the suffering I experience is at my own hand. Or rather, my own mind. It is easy for me to see that negative thoughts produce negative feelings. I am obsessive compulsive and frequently, when I glom onto negative thoughts, I can't let them go.

I have said "I" too many times in this post. But sometimes that's what it takes for me to let go.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008


My name is A.C. (well, not really). I'm 25 years of "What the hell am I doing, anyway?"

Six and a half years ago, I stopped ruining my life with drugs and alcohol. Since then, I've managed to make the most of the mess I was. But I still have that dark, insidious sickness and sometimes it gets the best of me.

This blog has no focus, hence the title. I'm all thunder and wind chimes...there's very little order to the way I act, feel and consequently to the way I write. Perhaps it will make for some interesting reading. Perhaps it will all come out as disjointed gibberish. In the end, I hope it just comes out as honest.

Thunder and Windchimes

Last night, at 6:14 p.m., I pulled on my hoodie and headed out the door, headed towards anything besides my apartment, A.J. and the choking cloak of impending panic that almost always follows a disagreement.

I opened the door and stepped out into the part of the world that wasn't heavy and the openness and freedom and air were so welcoming that I almost forgot where I'd just come from. Fat drops of rain were just beginning to paint the deck with dark and the smell of wet earth teased me, like fresh-ground coffee; elusive smells you want to taste and hold and cradle but can't ever hold on to.

I tell you this story because I want to hold on to a moment.

The storm was slightly to the north and close enough to offer a sense of tragedy; upset, alone and rain-soaked compliment self pity nicely. Overhead, giant black thunderheads slid over one another and veils of cloud resisted the pull of the falling rain, only to lose out and whisp toward the ground. Everything seeks Earth during tumult.

I walked past a girl and her mother on their front porch. The girl, maybe half my age, was strumming an acoustic guitar. The melody was in the minor; low and sweet and folky. The sound of the guitar pulled me into a half memory, the kind where you're visually in the same space but emotionally in a time past. I wanted to sit on the steps of the porch with the women and soak in the music. It so perfectly matched my mood that I was sure it would permeate me with no resistance. But alone, upset and rain-soaked people aren't the types you allow near your daughter so I kept on.

A little further down the road, a set of wind chimes hung from a porch. As I walked by, the wind picked up and the thunder rumbled overhead and the wind chimes began to sing. I don't know how to describe the feeling it invoked without using some kind of cliche...but for a moment, the world felt like it was gaping wide open and that if possible, I would break into bits of light and get sucked into its maw. I felt wholly myself - like the sound of the wind chimes knew me as nobody and nothing else did and I felt entirely unalone.

I returned home when the storm passed. A.J. and I fought some more and I lost control of myself, like I used to do before I stopped trying to shoot happiness up my nose and down my throat, for the first time in years. I punched the fridge and I cried and I paced furiously back and forth. I struggled to have control and I lost it, over and over.

In the end, I told him that I needed a hug and that if he wouldn't give me one, I would have to go find a friend. And he gave me one, because he loves me. And I asked for one because beneath all the ego and pride and wanting to be right, I knew I was terrified of and enraged with myself, not him.