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Nov. 14th, 2007 03:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phthalombrageIt is past 4 AM.
I am strange.
While I know I should be asleep, I have not arrived at realizing this goal, like so many others. I have a clarity of mind that comes only while exhausted but not tired. It prevents me from getting much-needed rest and inspires all kinds of crazy crap to pop into my head.
There was something I wanted to write down. I thought of it walking through the A-level of Doherty, just near the soda machines, past the creepy hallway with the air conditioner-looking thingy, and I can remember where I was walking, the large, worn red floor tiles, the bricked-in windows, the Coke can finally missing from beside the chair where the prison was for CtFwS, but not the thought. Hate it when that happens. I hope it resurfaces so I can ink it into the margins of my notebook bursting with doodles of a panda hijacking a meat truck, zombie Dr. Handron, ninja turtles hiking in the Andes and syringes on the beach, and cryptic phrases like "cmartensite snaps under high stress", "There's nothing bad about cyborgs", "Old White Men: The Ultimate Sacrifice" and "Tired of salt pork? Those rabbits, they just might be all right!". (Oh yeah, I also keep some actual notes in there.)
I saw Professor Briere ascending the Newell-Simon staircase on my way to physics recitation. It was exciting. I grinned. He is a real person. He is practically a celebrity: he had no reason to recognize me, and I am fairly certain he did not. He is taller than I imagined him, but he does not own a blue ox, and he is not the Johnny Appleseed of hookers.
Someday I will ask the soda machine for my thoughts back. It will steal my quarters.
I think the sound of my voice impacts my experience of unfavorable emotions. When I was ever feeling really crappy, talking about things always brought back the waves of emotion and made everything worse again. Or it could just be that I hate having to explain things to other people. I was inconsolable. Denise used to use this to her advantage at dance. I don't have this problem when I write them down unless I am already crying. This would also explain why I had so many drawn-out miserable sobbing phone conversations my senior year. Hang up the goddamn phone, dumb bitch!
Laughing doesn't get me stuck in a happy mood, though. Unfortunate.
I wonder what kind of switches I could build to represent these behaviors?
If I ever have kids, I'm going to be like TAKE THAT, NATURAL SELECTION!
I am strange.
While I know I should be asleep, I have not arrived at realizing this goal, like so many others. I have a clarity of mind that comes only while exhausted but not tired. It prevents me from getting much-needed rest and inspires all kinds of crazy crap to pop into my head.
There was something I wanted to write down. I thought of it walking through the A-level of Doherty, just near the soda machines, past the creepy hallway with the air conditioner-looking thingy, and I can remember where I was walking, the large, worn red floor tiles, the bricked-in windows, the Coke can finally missing from beside the chair where the prison was for CtFwS, but not the thought. Hate it when that happens. I hope it resurfaces so I can ink it into the margins of my notebook bursting with doodles of a panda hijacking a meat truck, zombie Dr. Handron, ninja turtles hiking in the Andes and syringes on the beach, and cryptic phrases like "cmartensite snaps under high stress", "There's nothing bad about cyborgs", "Old White Men: The Ultimate Sacrifice" and "Tired of salt pork? Those rabbits, they just might be all right!". (Oh yeah, I also keep some actual notes in there.)
I saw Professor Briere ascending the Newell-Simon staircase on my way to physics recitation. It was exciting. I grinned. He is a real person. He is practically a celebrity: he had no reason to recognize me, and I am fairly certain he did not. He is taller than I imagined him, but he does not own a blue ox, and he is not the Johnny Appleseed of hookers.
Someday I will ask the soda machine for my thoughts back. It will steal my quarters.
I think the sound of my voice impacts my experience of unfavorable emotions. When I was ever feeling really crappy, talking about things always brought back the waves of emotion and made everything worse again. Or it could just be that I hate having to explain things to other people. I was inconsolable. Denise used to use this to her advantage at dance. I don't have this problem when I write them down unless I am already crying. This would also explain why I had so many drawn-out miserable sobbing phone conversations my senior year. Hang up the goddamn phone, dumb bitch!
Laughing doesn't get me stuck in a happy mood, though. Unfortunate.
I wonder what kind of switches I could build to represent these behaviors?
If I ever have kids, I'm going to be like TAKE THAT, NATURAL SELECTION!
