Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

coffee breaks with my crack headed coworkers; watching Freaks and Geeks on DVD (sometimes just to stare at James Franco); the feeling of using my brain (use it or lose it, folks); Fall Out Boy; Creed punk'd!; foolish Friday nights; feeling awake when I have to wake up at the crack of dawn

I. Dig Your Own Hole.

Due to my especially caustic and matter-of-fact nature, I outright insulted the music taste of a dear friend on Saturday, calling him, as I recall, “a type”, protesting that he only enjoyed pretentious alternative rock, and pinning down that he is obviously a big Radiohead fan. Which is all true. So why do I feel bad about saying it?

II. Kissing Cousins.

Besides the inherent way you relate to them, I think this is the big difference between having men for best friends (read: family without blood relation) instead of women:

You don't have very sexy dreams about one of your female friends that, while pleasant (read: hot.) at the time, upon awaking leave you feeling quite uncomfortable and possibly incestuous. At least, I don't have those kinds of dreams about my female friends.

I'm going to blame it on the drunk sleep and never speak of it again.

III. Vanilla Caramel Cologne

Even though it was Monday morning, 8 am class, I was excited about going to class this morning. I felt that the week was rich with possibility. I sat at one of the ridiculous constructed desk-and-chair-in-ones in the classroom and waited, taking out my new spiral notebook and pen, eager to learn.

We had a paper to hand back, and instead of having us pass them to the front from where we sat (which would have made so much sense and which I so wished had happened), my teacher invited us to walk up and hand them them in.

Standing from one of these previously mentioned desk-and-chairs has never been a very easy feat for me. It seems I possess the grace of a baby elephant in these circumstances, and today was no exception.

I made movements to stand. The desk wobbled. The coffee which sat on my desk wobbled, and tipped. Verona blend coffee and Vanilla Caramel coffee mate went all over my desk, all over my new notebook, but worst of all, all over the right side of my person.

I exclaimed “Shit!” at what I believe was a clearly audible level no doubt heard throughout campus, and stood completely, attempting to keep my cool. Covered in coffee, I approached my teacher, handed him my paper, and promptly left the room in search of paper towels.

I returned and attempted to clean up, but no matter how much I cleaned more coffee seemed to come from somewhere. Even when I did get everything up, the desk where I sat was sticky, and worse, I was sticky. And I smelled like coffee, an increasing unpleasant odor that begin to fill the room, or at least permeate the air around me in a way in which I couldn't escape it.

I had to pretend that this was a completely normal day for me, and when I left to go to my next class, I had to calmly walk down Baldwin Street, sunglasses and headphones on, smoking a cigarette, pretending that the coffee stain covering the right side of my torso was the new cool thing.

I can only hope that the school year will go up from here.

Yesterday, in celebration of former-roommate-Melissa's birthday, we sat on her and former-roommate-Emily's living room floor (there is no couch there yet), eating chocolate cake, listening to vintage polka music on vinyl. The air conditioning was broken, it was 85 degrees, and for long spans of time no one talked. It was like a avant guarde European short film made to illustrate the futility of life. But it was definitely the most relaxed party I've been to in a long time.

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One of the interesting things about living downtown is the fact that laundry day involves going to into the bars that share your building, asking bartenders to change dollars for quarters.

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Work is not great right now. I myself follow the “don't get dooced” rule, so I won't say much other that I've become very disillusioned with the entire ordeal.

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The new apartment still rules.

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It is so surreal to me that while it was not my intention for it to be so, a post to my website somehow passes for a real apology. It doesn't feel real.

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Classes start again for me on Friday. I was seriously motivated about a month ago, but lately I feel like I'm slipping. I can't organize my thoughts, I can't seem to move on certain things. I feel frozen, locked in place, or maybe even held down by some physic weight.

Of course, this is every August, like clockwork. And hopefully, like clockwork, it'll pass.

I just wish I could remember to watch for it, before I lose what little control I seem to exercise over my own wild psychosis.

The first step is to stop being such a drama queen. Stop feeding it. Stop looking for sympathy, stop trying to be so tragic. It's not romantic, it's sad and desperate.

So stop.

Shame. It's worse than being depressed. It's worse than being angry. There is a self righteous implication to the latter two. The first simply compels you to be torn up inside, wondering how to make it right.

I've been reminded that the only thing that can make you feel lower than being out among the beautiful people is taking out that low feeling on your friends, on the people that you are supposed to lean on. Feeling unhappy, I lashed out, and before I even knew what I was doing, I had flat out alienated myself again.

Some part of me sabotages every good thing I have going; that part aches to be alone so I can wallow and be tragic. It's such teenage melodrama, and every time I think I've outgrown it, it senses the relaxation in facade and creeps out.

I've been thinking on the best couple of days on what is real, while I've been telling people I “don't feel like myself”. The problem is, I think I do feel like myself, and that the happy party girl is just a front. That's scary to me.

That scant five minutes when I was drunk and yelling for no goddamn reason have made me think a lot. I still can't figure out exactly what happened, how I went from 0 to 60, spiraling out of control. The situation has seemed to go the normal Tollerson course of just holding your breath until the problem goes away, until things blow over, but I just wish I could take the whole thing back. Things are not the same now.

This should not be mistaken for a public apology. These are the histrionic ravings of a sad, craven young woman. Apologies are delivered in person, with no public urging acceptance. I'm not sure anyone should accept my apology. I never awarded the role model for my behavior that consideration, and always felt considerably high and mighty about it. I tell my mother to this day that she ruined my childhood with such outbursts. Why should I be given any leeway, especially when broadcasting such business to anyone that will listen? Am I as ashamed I should be? How can I be, writing here?

So I've moved. Half a block down the street. My entire apartment is the same size as some people's living rooms, but it is a perfect amount of space for me, and I'm very close to having it organized and painfully cute.

The only thing that is missing from there right now is internet access. Blah.

living and loving life, realizing how much stuff I own, moving, thinking about moving, talking about moving, being organized, lots and lots of driving

I walk into the room where my sister, Sarah, and my Mom and Dad are together talking.

“This is why I contend that demons roamed the earth before we were here.” says my father emphatically.

I assumed that I had simply come in during the wrong part of the conversation, by my mother and sister are just staring at him as well.