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

a marriage proposal, yelled from a block away by a sober person in midday downtown Athens; drunk dial from a hot friend; “what a sweet tart”; accidentally demonstrating on a night out that I am, in fact, scarily popular (or famous); “He's your boyfriend!” — “He is not my boyfriend!”; hate mail from HGB; Emily’s “title of the day” emails

Today, in an in-class discussion on why we as readers like autobiographies, (why do we care? why does the author choose this as a subject?), I brought in the idea that reading someone else's true story, while many things, is largely voyeuristic.

“We just love to see what is going on in other people's lives. To catch a glimpse of that which we wouldn't normally see.”

I mentioned that I have a website where I tell my stories about my life, “which for some reason, evvvverybody reads, even though I don't think I'm that fascinating—”

My hilarious and well-mannered Comparitive Lit teacher cut me off, laughing, “—and yet you put it on the web!“

This whole exchange is priceless for two reasons: first, Jenna Tollerson actually stating that she doesn't find herself fascinating is a flat-out lie, and nothing more than an excercise in modesty for the sake of appearing humble. Of course I find myself fascinating; just here (not even counting things scrawled in notebooks or things typed but never published) I have nearly four years of exhaustive self-reflection, analysis and storytelling where the central and most important subject is me. I've written exhaustively on Jenna Tollerson; here is normally where I would pick an entry to make a self-referencial link to but how could you pick just one. I mean really.

The second reason this is so funny is whenever I bring the site up, especially in a group setting where not many people actually know me (such as a class, the perfect example for the point I'm trying to make), I always feel like a corporate whore for jennatollerson.com, like the confederate in a focus group, or even more apt, like some really obvious paid-for product placement in a blockbuster movie. You're supposed to pretend it's not advertising, but everyone watching gets the feeling they are being marketed to. The only way I could feel more like a walking advertisement is if I had written the URL on the board and instructed everyone to go there as there was a potential they could win fabulous prizes just for visiting!

Of course, the idea of my writing as a marketable product is only another demonstration of how great I believe I really am; if it wasn't for my inability to perform at all well academically, I might become overconfident and turn into a big jerk. So thank goodness for the hell that is University, eh?

I am supposed to be writing my take-home exam. I'm hoping silly B&W pictures may help with my writer's block?

I really wish I wasn't in school right now.

Here's an entirely ridiculous picture of me.

If you really enjoy the pretentious histrionic writing, don't worry; the mood of the House is cyclical. I'm sure I'll be depressed and self-loathing again anytime now.

Jack and Diet Cokes; Union Bombs; the whimsical speak of the shights; letting drunk friends crash on my floor; drinking to forget; lots and lots of flirting; my new camera

R.I.P. Will the Fish
2003-2005

I just got a new digital camera.

I believe I'm engaging in shopping as therapy.

My sister, the rock star, is in the red and black today. Read it and revel in her awesomeness.

Things have been mostly good, even if there has been almost nothing to write about. Work, school, work, school, the routine only sometimes punctuated with sleep, hanging out in bars, or watching The Sopranos on DVD. I am the busiest I have ever been, with three fifths of my weekdays beginning at 8 in the morning and ending at 8 in the evening. I feel myself aging at a rate much more rapid than just a couple of years ago, burning the candle at both ends, as it were. But rather than shrink back from the challenge I find myself stepping up, charging at the obstacle that can, at times, seem like a brick wall. (Going full speed all the time causes many periods of accidental and unplanned unconsciousness, a factor that sunk me last week, academia-wise.)

Sometimes I wonder if I've taken on too much, gotten in over my head, a thought hastened by the naysayers (I shall not name names) who insist I can't keep up this speed for 3 to 4 more years, who grimace and give me looks and tones that say what the hell have you done? I smile sweetly I say that I'm certain that I can handle it, and privately I regard the whole situation as a trial by fire or a rite of passage, ultimately a pathway to some semblance of self-respect.

I also try to constantly remind myself that I could be working much, much harder with the payoff being much, much less.

In the meantime, I (usually) have weekends as a reprieve from all the madness. This weekend I saw a lot of people and consumed a whole lot of whiskey. Friday night found me drinking with my co-workers, which, besides yielding many free drinks also ended with me walking home with two roses purchased for me (from the “rose lady” that most Athenians are familiar with) by two of the aforementioned co-workers.

Saturday night I went to Sarah's show at DT's. A coworker of Sarah's was sitting with my parents, and just before introducing himself (Chris, a lovely doctoral student who was pleasantly fresh with me throughout the evening) gave up his own seat for me. As we shook hands, leaning in to hear names over the music, he looked at me agape and exclaimed, “You smell—You smell AWESOME.” I grinned and blushed like a schoolgirl. That was possibly the highlight of my interactions that evening, excepting my phone conversation with HGB, which is always a pleasure all it's own.