Tags: real life

jesus christ its a house

Woah, more things going right?

And today I find out that there's a place which gives up to $10,000 in graduate school scholarships for people getting MFAs in the arts. Including in Creative Nonfiction. I obviously haven't started applying yet, but I certainly will once I get the whole internship thing squared away (so. many. apps. agh.)


Things going actually kind of okay for once? I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, here. I'm not used to things going right.

... heh. Probably jinx'd it.
Blind Riku

what the

Of all the places I've applied to thus far, the first two to give me a truly coherent response along the lines of "we're totally interested and will probably hire you!" are a magazine in Minneanapolis and then a weird femminist small press in Corvallis, Oregon.

What. What is my life, even.


Reading Mark Z. Danielewski's twitter is sometimes like reading his books, but I think that's to be expected. Sometimes I wonder if he's for real or not. And sometimes I want to ask a thousand questions - like who the hell is Wembly? Why do ghosts follow him?

It's all very voyeuristic.

I don't like updating my twitter though. I'm what we call a tl;dr kind of person - I think in huge walls of text. Twitter's tiny, chunked style just doesn't work for me. Not enough words.

Behind on job apps again. Need to get back on that. No responses from anyone. I'm going to have to start apping for things that I really don't want. Scrape the bottom of the barrel. You'd think that unpaid summer internships wouldn't be this hard to get but... well.

At least I can still try Associated Content or other freelance writing if all else fails. And databasing again. And work on finishing Manic Pixie Dream Girl (it WILL be finished. I swear it.)

I just... I still feel like my dreams constantly get scuttled, you know? I strive for high things, try to shoot the moon, except all I've got is mentos and diet coke. Fwishhh.

Not sure if that metaphor held.

Sorry to give more sad news, y'all. Heck, I was just thinking today while looking at the f-list for my fandom journal... it always makes me sad to see a list full of hurt. Yeah, LJ exists mostly for people to rant about the grr, arr in their lives, and I'm not saying GRRRRR STOP BEING EMO AND ENTERTAIN ME. It's more... it's a shame that people's lives are sad so they write sad things and I wish they were happy...? Man this didn't come out right at all.

annnd I'm in trouble with my web design teacher now. Back to work.

the universe hates me

*e* For any of you who think that sort of thing's funny? This isn't a fucking April Fools joke. Nor were the rejection letters I've gotten.

I hate april first.




why. I just. I don't even. Fuck everything.

I got rejected from the Wolf Trap internship. Jesus fucking christ, the one internship I was sure I had a chance at and, no. No, I don't get in. The woman even calls me to let me know that hey, I like your writing but someone else got in. Second time someone's said that my writing is fantastic but I'm just not what they're looking for.

Fuck you, universe.

And I tell myself over and over that I should have applied for more but honestly that's all I was able to find that were summer-only internships for editors. I know for a fact that Marvel will never call me back, nor will Mother Jones, those were reaches anyway.

This was my last summer to try to get on my feet. I've been dicking around all through my college career, not thinking about the future, not being the crazed Type-A moron and when I came back from Japan I said no, I wasn't going to be a loser anymore, I was going to follow my feet and get out in the world. This was my last summer to do that, the last time I'm going to be able to take advantage of undergrad internships. I was good, I got on top of this stuff back in January, I got my applications in on time, I worked hard.

And the universe, as usual, spits in my face.

I just. I'm so fucking tired of it, I couldn't even get jobs at fucking Starbucks last year and now...

I want to fly. I want to soar and I want to burn with wings of fire and thunder; I want to show the world who I am and I want my voice to sing to the heavens and now...

I find myself with nothing left to even say.

Sometimes it feels like the fucking story of my life. Every time I want something the gears of the universe see fit to crush me into powder. When I was nine, I wanted friends and I was called a freak and ostracized, so that I STILL have emotional problems; when I was thirteen I wanted to get into a magnet school for mathematics and science so that I could get away from the people who persecuted me, I ended up in a high school with those same people; when I was seventeen I wanted to go to a top, Ivy-league school like my CTY friends, I got into the school where my mother works; and now...


It's too late to apply for any more summer internships and fall internships are out of the question; my school is too far away for me to commute anywhere.

Auuuuuuuuuuuugh I just. I just. Fuck everything.

This is, pleasantly enough, on top of the library forgetting that I am doing senior seminar and deciding that oh, those 20 books I have out so that I don't fail? they want them back. Or else I get to pay a massive fee. And don't get to graduate anyway just AUGH.

I'm so frustrated I can't even think.

(no subject)

I just saw one of the most deeply powerful pieces of live theatre that I've ever seen in my life. It is Synetic's production of the Inferno and...

I'm still shell-shocked. I started crying halfway through and I...

I haven't felt this way in a long time, this emotionally... I don't know. I'm both crying my eyes out and at the same time, I feel so... alive. A beautiful, beautiful piece of heart-rending theatre.

I want to see it again, and then I want to take their Virgil out for coffee, becuase I talked to him after the show (ah, the wonders of being my mother's daughter) and he's... an amazing person. We both read the Inferno at the same time, we're both English majors, I think I could talk to him for hours.

"Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me.

Please, remember me."

*e* There's A trailer, which obviously cannot capture the show; and I don't know if it will be as powerful for anyone else as it was for me. But still. It meant something to me. And is that not what matters?

(no subject)

Seven pages, TMR font, double-spaced.

Two more than the minimum for Thursday's conference. Unless you don't count my long quotes as part of it. In which case I probably just squeaked in under the limit.

It's garbage. But I always feel that way about my first drafts. I actually think that someone who doesn't feel at least a little trepidation about their first drafts is either lying or not as good as they think they are.

Yeah. It's not good. I need direction. But that's what conferences are for.

Now, if you'll excuse me? I'm going to go take a nice, long walk.

(no subject)

1. Time management skillz. I do not has them.

2. I owe the first 5-10 pages of my thesis paper next tuesday. oh god oh god I'm going to die.

3. Still trying to get all the reading for reacting done; not doing so hot

4. it is godsdamned cold in this computer lab, which is somewhat unusual. Usually it is unbearably hot. I like the hot better.

5. Haven't applied for more internships oops :\



8. IT IS COLD IN THIS ROOM I CANNOT FEEL MY HANDS but I also cannot go back to my room because then I will be EVEN MOAR distracted.

9. did i mention my lack of time management skills
jesus christ its a house

consciousness; stream of

pardon my pretension, but occasionally I vomit words; spew ideas and it all comes out like a high-schooler's madness, gladness, badness; I blame Danielweiski, the fool. I dream of staircases and of monsters in the dark and I will never think of else again. Characters are burning in my soul and twisting myself to something new again and I'm a million different people from one day to the next, I can't change my mode, no, no, no; my shape shifts and I am unmade and remade and perhaps fReemade books are in my blood and I am words, words, words; do I write anything new or do I just regurgitate, recycle and renew? Maybe in our green-obsessed world this is a fine and dandy thing, after all we're nothing but sequels and remakes but I want the new. I'll destroy, I'll burn down the status quo because I want something new.

Gods. I am undone. I am undone. I break from my false reality and my real reality still unfolds and unbinds. I don't know where I am. And yet I remind myself that all this has happened before and will happen again. I will survive this. I will endure, and in enduring grow strong. Can you catch all the allusions I've made? I'm a rotting cesspit of festering pop-culture garbage, the space between my ears filled by inconsequence.

I'll survive.

But at what cost? At no cost; I'm thinking like a high schooler again, thinking that I'm the only one in the world this has ever happened to the only one this happens to and that's a lie. I am not a beautiful or unique snowflake. I am the same decaying organic matter as everyone else. Hi. This organic matter is dreaming and is reaming and streaming out thoughts, bleeding words from a shotgun wound.

Don't worry. I'm not depressed, I promise. Just thinking. Bleeding ink from paper skin. I've been listening to Johnny talk too long.

I have to finish this thesis.

(no subject)

back. will post more coherently later. just know that it sucks when your biggest souvenir is a 100 degree fever. which I had on the entire plane ride.

going to pass out now