Maybe I’m crazy, or just making excuses

It’s sickening how lazy I am.

TL;DR – Eris misses The Kid, she can get a teaching job, she’s lazy and a user. Blah blah blah grad school.

When I left my hometown to get my masters degree, I was convinced it would be the catalyst for change that I needed. I would walk into those doors and discover the real Eris. One who was confident and could utilize her talents doing something fulfilling or at the very least something that made me money.

I would be forced to “grow up” by my stacking bills, and borrowed loan after borrowed loan. I would be living on my own, again, with a roommate from the school. I would pad across those wooden floors thinking, “This is MY house, and it is my responsibility.” I would bend down over books and study my ass off, spend time at the school shooting video and editing them into pieces of art. I would go to New York City and become an artist and eat ramen and find myself waiting there like the real Eris always was.

I would not end up back home lying in bed wandering waking dreams and wishing I was back in 2010 and not applying to school at all.

I worked at a store, back then, and I wasn’t on meds but I definitely had the option to start. I was surrounded by encouraging people also at a loss of what to do. I had no debt.

I kept thinking, “This is my last chance,” and signed up to take the GRE, whether I’d use it or not. I had been out of undergrad for three years, been to open houses for schools, and even dragged The Mechanic to an open house once. I think. Or maybe he just drove me.

(Years later I’d be at a party thrown by the rental house I worked at this summer and see the “dean” of that trade school there munching on barbecue chicken. I pulled my coworker aside and asked, “Who is that?” and was told. It brought memories from 2009 rushing back.)

I was convinced that a year at that trade school would be just what I needed to push myself back into the working world…

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(December 10, 2011)

So today was a BIG day for me. It was the second-to-last day in [TV Production class], and second-to-last day on the crew of [our show.]

We did something [Chuck] told me was very unique and “interesting,” and that he had never experienced before, and [The Kid] was terrified beforehand, relieved after, and [Bea] started crying. No, we didn’t all have an orgy.

Relevant, hilarious Torchwood scene:

[Our professor] critiqued and, at times, graded us in front of the entire class, and then other students piped in with their observations and opinions, both positive and negative. They tread very lightly with me, probably afraid I’d burst into tears like usual, and I felt like they let me off easy. [Bea], though, honestly thinks I have potential.

Poor [Bea] got a shitty review, because although we will all freely admit she is FUCKING BRILLIANT, only [our professor] told her this in front of the class. I forgot to. [The professor] and others piped in with her negative qualities, and [Bea] started to tear up and hid her crying.

Other than that it was interesting. I, of course, ‘cuz I’m wicked lame, spoke up for [The Kid], and got [Cully] to admit that “[The Kid]’s the fucking man,” and if we didn’t have [The Kid], we wouldn’t have (the character) Paul. (They too all liked his new shaven look and haircut.)

Tension this week was amplified by my own psychological fucked-up-ness, but on Sunday I said, “Last night never happened,” and [The Kid] agreed it should remain forgotten. Okay, so he actually said, it IS (i.e. WILL BE) forgotten told me no, it didn’t, and to “forget it.” And when I Google shit like, “What happens when you get turned down by that weird beardy dude who might be gay and he’s your best friend in the entire state of goddamn New York?” the blogs all say, “Move on and don’t mention it again.”

So he didn’t, but I did, more or less, by my skittish behavior around him, which was more skittish than usual, because in the past, who knows how he interpreted it, and now it was obvious why I was behaving that way. Then again, none of this leaves his mouth. In our continuing discussions to get to know each other, I found he’s very much got that manly trait of only saying things that are relevant, and a sort of old-world quality, especially when it comes to texting and instant messaging, (both of) which he dislikes.

Anyway, things got tense and I got lame and pissed off [Dee]. She made some good points I think I remember her making all along throughout the year, since July, that this is graduate school, and the work is what is most important. There’s a part of me that prays that [Dee] and [Ling] will forget, and along with [The Kid], really, about 98% of the personal things I’ve shared with them this year and this semester.

Work on the project was paramount, but it was never in the forefront of my mind until this week, when completing our research paper was our most important task. With others handling [our TV show], [The Kid] and I were free to concentrate our energies on our research project with [Dee] and [Ling], but I wasn’t the only one to let my mind wander. Even with whatever else is going on in his head, it’s less than what’s going on in mine (not less important, especially with the despair he said he felt back on Saturday night, but he’s so calm), and yet [The Kid] did as little, if not less, work. Then again he’s background guy, like we said to him in TV Production today. He did all kinds of miscellaneous tasks and writing we needed completed for the project. He also wrote some essays that were incorporated into our final paper. But honestly, all three of them admitted, with all my faults, I’m the best writer in the group. Okay, so maybe they didn’t say that. But it was hinted. (‘Cuz it’s true. LOL)

So what does any of this have to do with any of the crazy, stupid bullshit I pulled this year? (Or more specifically, this semester.)

If I really had been in love with [The Kid], of all goddamn people, I would have worked harder to make things civil. I would have done more work on our research paper to get us, and him, a better grade. I would not treat him like a psychiatrist. I would not clumsily try and launch myself at him. I would be nicer.

I sit near him though, and even with the things I projected onto this BROTHER of mine, and foolish things I said and did to him, I feel comfort. I don’t want to fuck him. That’s too…I mean, it doesn’t cross his mind at all. I’m not that. But I told [The Photographer], self-deprecatingly, that I would fuck anything that moves, provided I can actually fuck again. (Goddamn vulvodynia! Annnnd falling in “love” with people that don’t want you. And school. And bipolar disorder.) This is the [Eris] I feel haunted by, even though she was young, reckless, stupid and is, most importantly, in the past. I even said that to [The Journalist], that I wanted to change. But I blew him anyway.

Not that blowing [The Journalist] (who I keep running into in hallways) was necessarily a “return to form” for me, but I remember having a depressive episode and thinking that was the case.

I wonder if he knows I’m bipolar?

But then again, as [The Musician] said this weekend over IM, “It’s a problem, not an answer. One that REQUIRES a solution.”

So let me get back to the feelings I felt today with my…feelingness. /sighs. I’m going to have to say goodbye to this, whatever the fuck it was. “It’s all over,” he said, meaning TV Production and [our show]but this whole bizarre stupid experiment dream crap in my brain is also over. Companions no longer.

We’ve been project partners since July. That’s the only reason I ever hung out with the kid, until I found myself wanting to. I told him I was lonely and desperate, to try and explain my repulsive, desperate behavior (Saturday night), but he’s…

Every place I end up, I end up, if I’m lucky, with some kind of anchor.

But that’s not the case. /shakes head. And not only because we’re just classmates, neighbors, and I’m “a good friend,” and when he’s drunk, like a “sister,” but because…[The Kid] is a disturbed young man with a lot of problems he needs to figure out. Why do damaged people get drawn to each other? We wondered on Saturday.

But I’m not expressing it, I’m psychoanalyzing bullshit again. No, today, all day today, even as [Dee] and [Ling] were crumbling before our very eyes, when it came to completing our research project, I was happy to be next to him, to look him in the eye (which we do, now, and didn’t at the beginning of July), and to see…You can see his face, now, which…

Man, if you saw a picture of this kid, you would laugh at me SO hard.

Anyway, tomorrow is the last day I’ll see him before next semester, unless I bump into him or he wants to see me, or whatever, that never happens unless we’re stuck somewhere like the set of [our show], in the scene dock, bored out of our minds, eating chocolate or complaining about something or musing on life and entertainment or teasing each other. Driving a jeep two hours away to [an animal rescue]. And driving the two hours back again. Downing a bottle of red wine and cursing shitty Internet connections.

I knew as soon as I met him I would fall for him, in some way or another. I knew it when he sat down in my kitchen and we argued the existence of God, and I got in his car, as he drove, and saw those ugly, bitten-down fingernails and took his hand to get a closer look.

It’s all irrelevant, [The Kid] would say, or doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. And what I pray, as well, is that he doesn’t care how mad or crazy I get. That he’ll be there.

But that’s not gonna be the case any longer. It’s…

It’s winter now. New beginnings for the spring.

That didn’t explain it either. It’s the way I can…

(It’s the way I psychically reach out behind me to feel his warm presence there. It’s the way I try and ignore it when he’s there and I can’t bear it. It’s sitting across from a table with him or in a car on the road or…So dumb. I feel sad, now.)

He didn’t mean it the way I interpreted it that Friday, but it was like gravitation, this year. /sighs.

I want him to go to the party tomorrow night. I’ll stay sober, this time, but I want one last big hurrah. And I want him to be there with me for it.

I wonder if he will go? Do I have the power to make him go to such things, anymore?

Three Texts (November 7, 2011)

“There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.”

In a parallel universe somewhere…

She was sweet and conscientious, had a vanilla sort of disposition, and she was shocked and sometimes offended by the things you said. It wasn’t worth your time, that midwest charm of hers. She didn’t act pretentious, though. She just had a dream of being a writer. She composed poems, mostly, which she timidly shared. She’d been hurt and was only just now mending herself back together, and with the makeup she didn’t look older than 25, even though she was. They still carded her at bar doors, and she danced like an angel. When they dared her to kiss you, she turned beet red, but later she texted she hadn’t wanted to sleep alone. You realized in the morning you had missed an opportunity…

In another parallel universe somewhere…

She was confident and haughty, like a tiger, and she didn’t ever get offended by what you said, and she pretended you weren’t an asshole, if only because she was one too. She smoked cigars and played cards, liked metal and you could talk for hours about bands. You were fairly certain she was gay, but since she had come to film school with the dream of being a director (but without the pretension of Tanya or the aloofness of some of the folks in Rob’s gang), and she was a smoking hot 26 year old (fit, but didn’t judge others for not eating right; she could pound beers with the best of them), you couldn’t pull your eyes away as you watched her dance, like a demon had given her lessons. When they dared her to kiss you, she smirked and went in for the kill. You turned beet red and pulled away, but when she texted you she hadn’t wanted to sleep alone, she knocked on the door two seconds later and rocked your world…

In the real universe we call home…

She was uptight, yet she spoke her thoughts aloud as they came to her. This is wrong, that is inconvenient, this is annoying, that’s irritating, you’re absurd, that’s offensive, apologies, apologies, I like to fuck, I think slurs should remain taboo. I smoked a lot of hash and drank a lot and did I mention I’m an ex-slut? My lover is a journalist, I’m afraid of dogs, I hate cats, I’m allergic to tomatoes, don’t let me eat them. Can I have your french fries and your ketchup? Have a soda, on me. Thanks for the drinks, I gotta take a whiz. Doctor Who is awesome. No, Matt Smith is better than David Tennant. I don’t like metal, but I wrote a lot of slash. You’re gay, you have to be, I’m so hot, I can’t dance, I used to do karate. I’m an atheist and theists make me angry. I’m an apologetic ex-Catholic. The guilt builds up. How do I get over them? How do I get over it? You’re right, I don’t ever listen to you.

We should do this, that, this, that, apologies, apologies, I like your hair, your shirt, you need to lose weight, I’m only looking out for you, I need a boyfriend, a father, a boyfriend, a father, a lover, a babysitter, a boyfriend, a brother.

She was complicated but quite simply crazy. Sometimes she listened to you.

She had a habit of biting her nails, but sometimes she reached over and stopped you from biting yours. Her hands were soft in the summer, dry in the winter. Her touch wasn’t exactly pleasant. She hung on so she wouldn’t fall off the Earth. Sometimes she swaggered, but there were bags under her eyes and she didn’t wear dresses. She scowled a lot, and she complained a lot, and she was more sister than lover she could ever be.

When they dared her to kiss you…

What were in your thoughts?

She protested, “No, no, that can’t be,” and she giggled and laughed nervously.

But then she wouldn’t let go of you, not for a second, not for a while, at least. When she texted you she hadn’t wanted to sleep alone, you knew you had dodged a bullet.

You told her as much.

She’s still not over it.


This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

“If two wrongs don’t make a right, try three.” (October 13, 2011)

“By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; Second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest.”

[The Kid]

Wrinkles had started to form on her forehead, and just around the eyes, and would you let her suck your cock? Really? She wasn’t young anymore, and it wasn’t cool to get fucked by a 26-year-old slut. 23 was far too exotic as it was.

Not that you felt that way about anyone. Heart bruised at a young age by the threat, “I want to die rather than you leave me!” Crazy bitches were crazy bitches, and maybe you were asexual, except for all the porn. Something else, then. Something someone mentioned about their genderbending sister, and no, transexuality wasn’t natural, and no, maybe this Kinsey scale stuff wasn’t either, but it was something that made sense somehow.

You admit you’d rather people die than you admit you’re lonely, but she understands, or pretends to. Pathetic, sort of. Maybe you can relate to her. She’s older and she’s supposed to have her shit together by now. She can hang around in your apartment if she really needs to.

[The Engineer]

Katrina was supposed to take your virginity, wasn’t she? Forget the jailbait part. How could Kat be jailbait when you were still as innocent as she was? But she wasn’t anymore, and this girl was in your bed, and before she went to England, she grabbed your cock once before disappearing from the dorm room door like a ghost. You drank a bottle of vodka not just to prove your prowess but to forget her phantom fingers. She should’ve been more sympathetic on AIM, probably.

No matter. She insists on seeing Boston again, as if that’s her last time ever setting foot there, when in fact she needs to come back to complete thirty more credits the next fall. Maybe you’ll be gone. Transferred. Surely, if she’s not fucking you, then you can play games and not get bitched at. But oh, no. Not a good host, she says, making you watch weird anime. Need to be drunk just to understand it. Never did drugs, never much approved of them. She vanishes with a phone call, joking she “skipped town,” and then she gets on a plane, no huge loss. You think you once told her she was the most interesting person you’ve met. Scratch that. That’s a lie. She’s just done more interesting things and doesn’t think much of getting in a car with strangers to find the nearest fast food place at one in the morning. She’ll kiss you on strangers’ couches, too, and she tastes like Schnapps and vodka. So when she comes back whining near-constantly about so many lovers, too many lovers, you slide a hand up her shirt. Legs dangling on a raised-up dorm bed, and she jumps on you.

The only problem with letting a girl be on top is she’s the one in control, and she won’t stop talking. “This is wrong!” she says between kisses. “It’s not right, it’s not proper,” she says as she slides onto your cock. And she makes pained looks, like she’s hurting, like it’s too big. And she says something really hurtful and stupid like, “I’ve seen bigger, but not in over a year.” You forget how you even came, then, and she forgets too, and the morning is her peering at you entering the room like it’s not your fucking dorm room. You slept in the living room to give this bitch space. It wasn’t romantic and it wasn’t even sleazy. It was inconvenient. She needs to not sulk when you say she’s not your girlfriend. Why would she ever be? All she does is shut her eyes and think of the Englishman.

[The Teacher]

It seems like such a stroke of luck you’ve ended up at this same party, and you don’t know, at first, that this is her lover’s apartment, or he’s the one in the awful Hawaiian shirt with the glasses and the demeanor like he’s got a rod jammed up there real deep. She thinks drugs are fascinating, and she thinks a psych major that does drugs is even moreso. You like the same comics and movies, TV shows and issues, and it doesn’t make you uncomfortable when the guy starts licking a girl across the room, but it makes her want to flee, and you think it’s just because she’s a lady, but it’s really because the girl isn’t her.

Not that she’ll admit this. Instead she’ll say she’s hung up on another guy, another guy whose name she spits out like it’s a curse, but she sighs and her eyes go into the distance. And it’s not even like she’s fucking him. He won’t even speak to her. You tell her she’s a lawnmower anyway.

You loved her more than anybody else. Maybe she was “something else,” which guys will say later, and have said before, with a sarcastic sort of pout, with a glazed infatuation, and with mild confusion to outright terror. That girl is “something else,” isn’t she? But what, exactly?

And why does she smoke all your pot?

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

“My movie is born first in my head, dies on paper”

Why is it always so much easier to write on a computer screen?

That’s beside the point, however. I’m supposed to make a video for my bosses at the rental house – they’ve filled up the summer with tutorials in their various cameras, even making me thread a film magazine, so they also want us to learn something in addition to doing a bunch of menial labor. It’s also in order to have something to put on their Vimeo site. All their interns have videos up there, and my supervisor, when I wouldn’t give him a straight answer about what I was planning on shooting, asked if it was a violent zombie picture or some kind of dewey sweet My Little Pony affair, and I said neither. He asked if it was a love letter to our rival company and I said it wasn’t that either. He’s just gone on vacation, so it’s bad timing, but I’m taking out some equipment anyway.

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New Aquaintances

Met another intern today because I swapped shifts, and I not only found someone even lazier than I am (thank God! I thought I was too lazy, but I guess I’m just lazy enough), but also someone to tell me something that made me feel a lot better (for at least five minutes).

I told him I’m a writer, but when I corrected myself with, “Well, I haven’t really sold my work,” he replied that a writer is still a writer, even writers who haven’t sold any of it yet.

I feel comforted by that.

I told him what my professors told me – all the advice they gave (and which I ignored, and didn’t tell him I ignored).

Truthfully, I have written down something, at least, nearly every day for many, many, many years.

None of this is sellable. Certainly not 99% of the content that was on Livejournal, 80% of the content that was on (some stuff with names changed could work; just look at Fifty Shades of Gray), or let’s say 95% of the content on this hot mess here…

…But potentially…

/shakes head

I need a day job. I even told him that. I need a day job. Some kind of inspiration.

I got really lazy the other day but then it turned into restlessness and my grandmother pointed out, “You’re bored!”

I shot back I’d find fulltime work, but I must confess, I am enjoying this vacation. (“You’re on vacation,” she said another time) I have not been looking. Mostly because I still don’t have a focus and still don’t know what to say.

One thing I’d love to be able to say is, “Yeah, I interned at such-and-such.” But my supervisor told us on Day One not to tell anyone we work for them until after our last day. What the shit is that?

That’s not a valid reason for me not job searching, however. I whipped out one of the many guides to job searching that Career Services gave us, and it says that to find a job, you have to make finding a job your job – by which they mean, a targeted search that involves talking to people, calling people, sending resumes, making phone calls, sending more resumes, making more phone calls, mingling, telling people your elevator pitch whenever humanly possible, going on interviews, acing interviews, getting rejected, picking yourself back up. Etc etc ad infinitum, until you find a fit somewhere.

The only half-assed attempt I’ve made so far is to email The Catholic’s two friends the lamest networking letters ever.

What was the other thing? Oh, right, my professor wants us to write essays about our experiences. I already have acted like an asshole/weirdo to a few ex-classmates, while being a genuinely human-like friend to the others, and the Internet is terrible, and I was originally looking forward to reading my classmates’ writing this summer (it’s gonna be a BLOG! using my other WordPress account, the one with my real name; pray I don’t accidentally use this one; I already [intentionally] messaged someone I know IRL with my “Eris” Twitter account)…

…but now I’m dreading it. Our professor wants tales of success, tales of falling and picking yourself back up, some kind of inspirational advice for this summer’s new class. All I know is I need to keep myself entirely out of the equation when I write these things. They have to be optimistic. I’m tempted to say:

“You won’t learn what you need to learn at this school. You think you will. But if you went into this not knowing what you wanted, expecting to know by the end? You’ll end up with even more questions.”

Maybe I should tell them that after all. FUCK IT, I’m gonna tell them that.


Back in the Day, I had a Livejournal.

In fact, I had several Livejournals.

Before that, I had an Angelfire account.

A couple of Angelfire accounts.

And I had a profile at Fanfiction.Net.

The only problem was, I was always better at ORIGINAL fiction. The only problem was, I didn’t know it at the time.

Thus, An Eternity in Cheese Country was born.

But that’s not why I’m writing. I’m writing because it must be very strange for a girl with ZERO READERS to be addressing a phantom audience. WELL, I have an explanation for that.

Perhaps, these rants about bipolar and sex and self-entitled, #firstworldproblems crap can be edited into something readable, and perhaps I shall use it.

Perhaps An Eternity in Cheese Country as well.

No? Maybe? Bueller?

When I took a writing class in 2010, I wrote some stuff that wasn’t just about bisexuals whining and fucking and whining some more. I wrote some magical crap. I think. Somewhere. But considering I posted a bunch of bad fiction, I suppose posting better bad fiction is best reserved for another day.

As for real life, The Photographer is a douche. I got bit by mosquitoes at a Fourth of July party. I am confused too easily and read into other people’s motivations – doubting their intentions – to the point of paranoia.

There is a boy I know that I will call The Catholic.

I met him in a karaoke bar. He was a friend of a friend, who was there to see them, but got the pleasant surprise of hearing me sing. It was a stupid song. It was “Don’t Tell Me” by Madonna.

He immediately asked for my number. Me, back then being unaware that this is just what friendly people do, assumed he had some ulterior motive for calling my singing beautiful and wanting to see me again.

I did see him again, but I forget why I kissed him in the rain the night we all went to a movie, surprising him and his friends. I have no idea what the laughing group said after, because I drove off into the rain, embarrassed. I was leaving for grad school in a matter of days, and I figured what the fuck, what do I have to lose?

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Reminds me of someone

Today at work (my internship), one of the employees there started talking to me, asking how I’ve been, and then he asked me about something I had told him when I met him – if I’m a writer.

We got into a discussion about it, and I said I had “stopped,” which is accurate, because I stopped writing fiction, or anything remotely readable. (This doesn’t count, I don’t think.) I laughed and said I write “creative nonfiction,” and he didn’t really know what that was. He started giving me advice, like people do.

We talked about whether or not it was prudent to write every day, or to write only when inspiration struck. He told me about his favorite writers, and also shared that he used to BE a professional writer – and right now he was working on a screenplay. What’s funny is that my mind is in the gutter as usual – anybody I don’t work with everyday I find attractive, for some reason – he and this other guy in rentals who is just delicious. The people I work with closely I just think are better than me somehow in all sorts of ways but not “like that.” There’s one new guy who’s cute but who doesn’t draw my eye like Rentals Guy. The Writer didn’t either, but then he seemed familiar. For some reason he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

I’m not sure why, I think he was distracted. He did that thing that I do, not looking people in the eye when I’m talking about something that means something to me. The Kid did that. (Speaking of which, I finally contacted The Kid and asked him about his internship and he told me about it, and he was GONNA chat with me on Facebook chat about it, and I turned him down, like an asshole.) He didn’t start looking me in the eye until we’d known each other for months.

But no, this guy – who’s in engineering, not in rentals – reminded me of ME! Talk about narcissist and reading into shit. I can’t even have a proper conversation with a person without dragging my baggage into it. Anyway, he was telling me about writing and his favorite writers, and he was saying I should keep it up, to do it again, to produce something. Not to quit. I think he shared that with me because that’s how he feels about his own writing. He said he hoped his screenplay could become a movie.

Anyway, that’s something career-related. Ish.

(Darn, I never did write about The Politics of Hand Sanitizer. Someday.)

Full Circle

Nifty thing happened during my FINAL final exam. (No more school for me! Then my friend said I should be a teacher. Noooo!)

Last summer I took a class called Critical and Historical Perspectives of Television, Radio and Film. Mainly we looked at television, because that was our professor’s specialty. He’s part of the reason I wanted to go to the school I did. (Film school + Upstate New York + TV Program = You seriously should figure out where I was by now.)

So anyway, I hadn’t thought about any of the content of that class (the five methods of film criticism) for the entire year. I had it during summer semester.

So I’m looking at notes people made, and I’m trying to remember stuff, and then I get to the testing center (we had only one question, from a list of ten questions we were provided months beforehand), and of course it’s on the five methods of film criticism.

How could it not be?

And then I nailed it. Sort of. I wrote TOO much on the topic. I have no idea if the facts were right, I just kept trying to remember as much as I could from that class. And I sat there and thought, “This is so appropriate, that this is happening right now. That the last thing they test me on is the first thing they taught me.”