On a High Note...

I did however do something awesome this semester.

I got a few groups on campus to pay for my favorite poet to come speak on campus. It wasn't easy and I spent a lot of sleepless nights obsessing over the details...which are slightly boring so I will spare you...

but long story short. I picked Joy Harjo up from the airport, went to Lilydale to get psychic readings with her, and then hosted an event where over 300 people came.

You could say it was a big deal.

Ok back to the depression.

Nighty!

Food Stamp of Approval: And Other Tales of Self-Loathing

Grad school and its distant cousin, Poverty, are really making me feel sorry for myself. I'm pretty much pathetic at this point. All I do is wallow in my own self-pity and eat chicken fingers from PDT at 11:30 at night. I couldn't even concentrate on my research paper tonight because I was too enthralled with another worthless episode of the Hills. If that last sentence doesn't prove what a walking contradiction I have become than what does?

I don't know what is wrong with me. Something though. Two nights ago, I came back to my apartment at 10:00 PM to find that my beloved bf had made dinner and set up a candle lit dinner for the two of us. On top of that, he bought me an electric heater so I could actually fall asleep at night. The night before, dressed in long underwear and an additional two layers, I didn't fall asleep until 5AM because I was so cold. Oh the pain.

So yea, there I am walking in on greatness and I don't even give the right reaction. Apparently I was supposed to succumb to my emotions. In truth, I loved what he had done. I had a stupid smirk on my face all the next day but at the moment when I knew I was expected to react a certain way...I just could not. I thanked him, but with dry eyes. So on top of everything else, the overwhelming work load, the inability for me to pay my bills, the feeling like I will never be done with grad school...I also ruined dinner and the one nice thing that happened to me all week.

So here I lay in my bed, wondering when I started to accept this mediocrity from myself. I'm better than this. I'm better than all this self loathing and moping around. I lived off of 15 centiemes a day in France and let me tell you, this old creaky apartment is a million times better than living with a perverted boob grabbing host father and a host mother who steals your journal and starves you.

I don't know what's wrong. Possible culprits are seasonal depression and lack of new cleavagey outfits.
It's time for bed though, I have a big day of endless research and standing in line to get food stamps.

Turkey Basters...Because Turkeys Need Love Too

Now is not the time for a Poor Choices revival campaign.
I'm going to have to pull another total eclipse of the Heather if I don't watch out.
And I was doing so good for so long...

Sadly I've rediscovered the all night bender and the lack of responsibility that pretends to come with it. It might be my current state of pathetically poor graduate student, or my recent close friendships, or maybe...people are who they are and you can't really change. I really wanted to.

I'm going to give this all one more shot. Try to make things right. Make better choices. Not be a selfish, immature brat.

And right now I'm going to pull myself out of this self-loathing stupor and go have pie with my 90 year old grandfather.

A World Without Maps

Last Wednesday was a pivotal moment in my still pretty young existence.

I met my favorite author. His name is Michael Ondaantje and yes, he did write the English Patient, the cause of so many tears which stained my acne riddled cheeks when I was 15.

I inherited a very swanky VIP ticket. By inherited I really mean a friend of mine didn't want to go. So there I stood pounding free cabernet as fast as possible, as I stood by myself trying not to look like the youngest and most akward member of the group. Thankfully a UB professor took pity on me and introduced herself and her friend, who by the by turned out to be the visiting filmaker of "Punches and Ponytails," a documentary about female boxers in India.

When it was finally my turn to have my book signed by this rather sexy 60 year old, what did I say? Something eloquent about the story or the characters or maybe about his style of writing.

Nope.

I told Mr. Ondaatje that he had been my favorite author since middle school and that I take his books with whenever I travel to other countries.

Not as cool as I had hoped that moment would be.

Hippies Vs. Crazies '08...

Sometimes entertainment comes to you when you least expect it. Like when Jim Deferio and his daughter, Michelle Deferio, come and brighten up your day with messages of hate and ignorance. Yummy. No actually it makes me want to throw up in my hands and throw it at them. Apparently they are infamous con artists who travel around to college campuses in hopes of angering people to violence. Insert a law suit and some new fancy megaphones and you've made a business out being crazy.


Oh Fredonia. I'm all resenting that I'm here and then you go and turn something really negative into a dance party...like only you could.

"I feel so unwanted!"-Bastard Embryo

October is here and that means it's time to start planning and starving yourself for this year's Halloween costume.

Hooray!

I have a few good ideas. Mostly they come to me while either running miles late at night in lonely Fredonia or driving around listening to talk radio.

Idea #1: Angelina Jolie, The Humanitarian. Accessories include baby dolls of all nationalities, a black corset and aviator sunglasses.

Idea #2: Sarah Pallin, The Hypocrite. Accessories include slutty outfit and best friend as John McCain. We'll probably make out.

And this little gem I thought up today...

Idea #3: Coat Hanger Abortion Baby, in honor of all Sarah Palin stands for...and then some!

This year, I'm not going to be a princess or a nurse...not that I ever would be...

That's what adult diapers are for...I guess.

I think I might pee my pants in front of 80 people today.

In two hours I get to do a presentation, for an hour, talking about diversity to what will probably be 80 white kids from the suburbs.

This has to be funny to someone.

I don't know how I got to this point. Where I could even fathom being able to do this.

And let's hope I can.