Below are the 4 most recent journal entries recorded in daintyjayne's LiveJournal:

Wednesday, November 3rd, 2004
4:48 pm	Dear America: Dammit. Goddammit. Hope you're a little better informed the next time around. (Comment on this)
Thursday, October 28th, 2004
11:07 pm	post-adolescent & angstastic jargon. Six cups of coffee today. Listen. I think I've got to be addicted to something. I've fallen out of love with the cigarette, but the need remains. I merely need something else to actively please me. And coffee does this. Let me explain why I like coffee. Some people have got booze, but all it takes for me to be sociable--to walk amongst the madding crowd grinning, benevolent, loquacious--is coffee. Also, out of all the lovely effects it has on my body biologically I am most fond of (and this is difficult to describe) this weightlessness that moves my wrists when I have had a cup or two. There is this feeling, most peculiar, that the nerves' blue walls will not contain their blood. It's nice. I don't want to be dark. I do not want this to be a confession. But there is no mistaking that I have a dangerously addictive personality. Right now, I am being shameless. I am glutting myself on each addiction I have: Marlboro Reds, coffee, slash fiction, sleep. Not backing away, not ashamed. Working on a little slash story (NCIS, Gibbs/DiNozzo, if you must know or even know of the television show I'm speaking of) and can't, can't, can't get it out of my brain. It's lovely and terrifying how my brain returns to it again, again, and again. No other place to go, nothing else to contemplate but subtextual homoeroticism on the part of fictional characters. What a small, small life I lead. But I'm not unhappy tonight. Not happy, either. I am here, and all the caffeine in my system is making me too verbose for my own good. Spent the evening with Paloma. It was sort of an accident, actually. Usually on Thursdays we meet in the lobby of Dane Smith Hall and I walk her to class. Today she emerges with a burrito in one hand and explains that she doesn't plan on going to class. So we linger on the bench--who am I to discourage cutting class? I do it myself more often than I should admit--outside, smoking and talking haltingly like strangers. Something's not all right between us & I do not like to confront such tension. She is angry & there is a rift & it makes me nervous, etc. So I talk her into coming with Colin and I to vote. An hour later, we're standing outside a small office in a line of a hundred people. We spend an hour, hour and a half, there, being rambunctious and young and giddy. You know. I vote and don't particularly care that I've voted except that it means I am blameless when we are all drafted. Then to my aunt's house (we're house-sitting for her) to let her cats in and out, then across town to Denny's and back to the aunt's to watch a movie and feed the cats. Awkward, to be sitting on my aunt's couch with my aunt absent. Awkward, all of this. This--this living. Goddammit. I hate when I catch myself in moods like this, all self-indulgence and worthless, dishwater-dirty grit. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 26th, 2004
2:31 pm	Hi ho. As much as I loathe rising so early on Tuesdays and Thursdays, there's something I enjoy in the industrious nature of it: up before dawn, showering with the knowledge I will emerge into a darkened room and be fully dressed before the sun's even bothered rolling out of bed. Get this feeling sometimes--and you'll have to excuse my crazy imagination; gets the better of me sometimes--that I'm, like, the last person alive the first dawn of a nuclear winter and that I'm totally going to be doing something far more useful than taking notes and solving equations. Feel an urge here to insert a Vonnegut-esque "Hi ho," but I won't. Saw Paloma after history class. She had a Nalgene full of Mike's Hard Lemonade and had just failed another test. Told her I failed my math test--first failure since high school--and she says sharply, "high-five. I've failed most of the tests this semester." I walked her to her next class after rolling us both cigarettes, and we stood speaking nonsense--a garbled stream of private jokes and crass references, jargon of friends--and laughing maniacally. Parted, but before inadvertently exposing myself pulling off my sweater and spitting on the ground like a redneck. Hi ho. (Couldn't help it.) Been wondering all day today if my mother would be proud of me, were she alive. Have decided to call up her old best friend--aunt gave me her number and said she'd love to meet me--and asking her to lunch. Corner her, maybe, and ask her what my mother was like. Everyone in the family has nothing but praise for her, but I know she had to have some flaws. I sincerely hope it's not true that whatever good I have in me I received from her and the bad, from my father. I'd like someone to explain, for example, this insecurity of mine. Nothing belonging to my father, and nothing inherited in my supportive, loving upbringing. Curious, you know. So, Hemingway. (Lord, how long has it been since I've made that private joke? And, yet, oddly enough, I don't feel like explaining it. Translation, roughly : "so, anyway.") Had some crazy dreams last night. They were sexy and sad and cold, epic and painted in clashing colors of fire orange & faded desert brown with blurts of lush & amazonian green. Difficult to explain: theatrical, the dreams were, cockeyed mix of frilly Victorian theater and a James Baldwin novel (not to mention the undertone of Coney Island, 1917. Something like that.) It's because I have had dreams like this that Julia once named me a great prophet. Who wants to be in my cult? Hi ho. No more Vonnegut for me. By the way, how does one make friends around here? (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, October 25th, 2004
5:22 pm	etc, etc. Hey. As far as introductions go, I'm tired of making them. Today has been a dull day. I've spent most of it appearing to be attentive in class while secretly indulging in sexual fantasies about Rupert Giles. Now I am appearing to be attentive to the internet while secretly indulging in sexual fantasies about Rupert Giles. Love it when I get hard by a celebrity crush--gives me a break from monotony, something to contemplate accompanied by a nice shit-eating grin I can scarcely hide. Weather hasn't helped to make today any less tedious. Cloudy & brittly cold. You know the kind of day. Walked home in heels; am now letting my feet recover. I wear heels all the damned time, you know? And I don't know why. I just do. I'm not particularly short, a good 5'7", but I like how slender they make my legs look. Had therapy today also. At the end of each session, my therapist likes to make some comment evaluative of the session as a whole, such as, "groundbreaking work today" or "not our best session." Like a pat on the head. Good dog. You know. I am beginning to suspect on some level that I dislike him, but--oh, Lord, sometimes he's brilliant. Really, here's what I'm struggling to cope with: I've got a crush, hardcore, on my therapist. A little stressful to discuss my life and feelings candidly with someone while, at the same time, I'm vaguely wondering what they're like in bed. Meh. Nothing surprising. Par for the course: any inconvenient or awkward crush I can develop, I will. I suspect Colin--that's the boyfriend--wants me to emerge from the closet and grant him the pleasure of my company while he cooks dinner for the both of us. He's making chicken & rice. Good hearty food. And we finally have television in our apartment, so it might be nice to watch the news like a civilized American as opposed to resorting to one of those godawful horror movies that Colin always wants us to watch. Guess, in short, this is my way of saying that I'm heading off. (1 Comment |Comment on this)