Okay, so this was written on April 7th, while I was at college.
So today I was reading The Basic Eight (novel by Daniel Handler) and I realized that even mundane things can be interesting if written down in a clever manner. It then occurred to me that I was capable of writing in a clever manner. Subsequently came the thought of this journal, which has not been being used in the manner I originally intended. So I have decided that I will write clever things in this.
Will I write in it for more than 2 consecutive days? Of course not. As much as I would like to pretend otherwise, I am a person of inconsistencies.
Usually when I write in journals I do not write very much because either a) I get bored before I've made my point; b) I have no point and therefore nothing to write; c) I am stricken by how unattractive my handwriting is; or d) I get the feeling that what I have written is so clever that I must share it with someone, and thus I never write anything truly personal other than vague poems. But I've been going about it all wrong: Journal-writing is for me, like those endless Notepad documents on my laptop that, if read by an outsider, would make one question, "Why does she have all these cartoon show quotes, stupid laws, and horoscopes saved?"
But I suppose there really is no better form of introspection than simply writing out one's thoughts, except perhaps simply thinking those thoughts without writing them, which is often just as effective. However, for someone with a short attention span like me, it is frustrating when all your brilliant introspection cannot be recalled later when you really need your own advice.
So, self, what are you thinking as you read this? What has changed? What has made you laugh? What-- or who-- has made you cry? Are they the same thing, as they often are now?
Perhaps by simply prompting more introspection, as I have just done, I can still yet avoid talking of personal matters, like my grades or who I'd very much like to be dating (of course, one is infinitely more interesting than the other, but as they fall into the same category of 'Personal', I will not discuss either. At least not right now).
It is my brother's birthday today. He is 23. This is the first time I have not been home for his birthday, and I am very unhappy about it. I am also unhappy that I have no glorious present to give him. I always give him glorious presents-- for Christmas I gave him Legend of Zelda: Spirit Tracks and the Limited Edition hardcover strategy guide for it. As usual, they were the most expensive gifts I bought that year. I'm not sure why I feel the need to buy extravagant presents for him-- or anyone-- but it's almost as if buying these things will give us just a little more common ground-- something to connect over.
And now I have no common ground to give.
I will most likely end up simply making a home-made (dorm-made?) card, which is my way of saying, "I'm poor, but I swear I remembered and I still care!" But it is hard to think of things to draw for him: my usual cute-but-sassy white cat with green eyes who says a cute holiday pun/joke would not be appreciated in this instance, I think. Maybe drawing Zelda and Link would be cool, but it's like saying, "There wasn't a new game out, so here's the characters from the previous ones." Actually, it isn't like saying that at all, but anyway.
What, really, is the point of writing in a journal? Every time I read some book written in journal format I want to do it myself, but then, even as I write many pointless things about my arguably equally pointless life, 2 things occur to me.
1) The book is witty and clever because other people get to read it and see how witty and clever it is.
2) My journal will never be considered witty and clever because no one is supposed to see how witty and clever it is.
So really, what is the point of writing anything witty and clever if you are the only person who will see it? There isn't one. And yet here I am still writing, as if harboring a secret hope that one day this will be published and my musings will be considered witty and clever. Which I will never admit hoping.
But which brings back to mind: I cannot write anything truly personal because I will always want people to think I am clever or deep, and if the things written aren't even clever in the first place, there is no need to write anything at all.
And now I am rambling. To myself. So I suppose I should actually start saying meaningful things now (ha!).
Often I am stricken with the thought, "I should write this down." It could be a bit of snappy dialogue from a friend, a description of someone else's action which I've conjured in my head, or, more commonly, the night's Japanese homework assignment. But writing often feels tedious, and I abhor my atrocious handwriting, so I write very little. Which is rather tragic for an aspiring writer.
But anyway, I often compose little paragraphs in my head about what has just happened in my life, in book form. [here I insert an example, but it may be a little personal and embarrassing, so I'll leave it out.]
Composing little paragraphs in my head makes mundane moments of my rather unexciting life into happenstances full of meaning and intrigue. I find myself describing even the awkwardest moments to myself, and then I tell myself to stop, because there's no point in thinking in book form if the book will never come to be.
I also narrate things aloud sometimes. My friends must find it an odd quirk, that after someone says, "I got a C," and someone else says, "So it could have gone better?" that I mutter quietly (and wittily), "...she asked unnecessarily."
I could think of endless examples of this if I tried hard enough, but as I have said, I often forget my previous internal introspection (she said redundantly) and so it would take forever to think of the wittier narrations. But if any good ones come up from now on (or from now til whenever I stop writing in this journal), I will certainly share them with you, self. And then the boring moments in your life will finally be the exciting and meaningful novel you've always craved.
It occurs to me that the above sentence would have been an excellent closing sentence to the entry, but I am not writing a novel in journal form: I am writing an honest-to-goodness journal. For only me.
What a waste.
Soon I have to go to Japanese lab, but first there's dinner. I wonder if I will end up bringing this journal and jotting down things as I wait for my invariably late friends? Most likely. I took my medicine not so long ago, so I am not hungry, but if I don't eat I will regret it later when I realize I've eaten a 3rd cup of Goldfish and am still hungry.
The timer has just alerted me that I have 5 minutes, and yet here I still am, lounging on my bed and writing pointless things (albeit slightly faster and with the air of an impatient person). So I suppose I should put on my shoes and go to dinner.
Where's an excellent closing sentence when I need one?
The lemonade, proclaims the little sign on the soda machine, is still "Out of Stock."
I have brought this journal to dinner, which means I will end up trying to read it to my invariably late friends, who will most likely show up at a time which would only permit me to read the first paragraph before I began a mad dash to Lab. But I suppose it's good to have someone to talk to, even if someone is myself.
Tay has just showed up and is talking about the 3 sentences she has written for her big paper, so I guess I will write more later.
Random thought before Lab: Maybe someday I'll have written so much in this that I'll curl up with it on a long summer afternoon and sigh to myself, "Ahh, yes, May 5th: my favorite part."
Well, here I am again.
I auditioned for Women on the Chester, a new Women's Acapella group. I sang an excerpt of Suo Gan rather beautifully.
I got in. (Sarah too! :D)
So basically, I got a package today, I got into a choral group, I started keeping a journal, and I actually had fun in Japanese. Oh, and I got a smoothie. The only way this Wednesday could get better would be if I received a sudden declaration of love from "the one I adore" (only 10 minutes left). But this is My Life, not a Fairy Tale, and as much as I wish the two terms were synonymous, they probably never will be. Still working on having Rapunzel hair anyway though.
The only part of today that wasn't cool was-- well, there were two parts really. One was following around Edith the Lit House Cat, to make sure she didn't cross the street, for the entirety of my two-hour work shift.
See, this is why I don't write about stuff that happens during the day in my journals.
Anyway, the other un-awesome part was discovering that I still do not have a) a title, b) a topic, or c) the slightest clue about the subject matter for the big upcoming English paper.
The title and topic are due in class tomorrow. The slightest idea part, I worked on with my friend SparkNotes. Very useful indeed.
"Monster and Maya: The Significance of Nicknames." Does that sound stupid?
Yup, I am pretty sure it does. But then, everything sounds stupid at 11:59 at night. On the plus side, though, everything sounds great at 2:00 in the morning, so maybe if I stick it out for a couple hours it will get better.
It's midnight. Sorry, bro, it's not your birthday anymore. Happy Thursday to me, even though it still only feels like Tuesday.
I really must go and get cereal tomorrow. Just thought I'd mention that.
I suppose this also means no declarations of love. Perhaps someday there will be a Wednesday that far surpasses the one I have just had, but I guess, for now, yesterday wasn't quite so bad. At least there was chorus and SparkNotes.
I don't get hungry as often as I used to. I don't know if this is because I am healthier, because it is hot outside, or because I am so busy that I can't just sit in front of my computer and eat, but whatever it is, I wish it would please continue.
Whenever I go without eating a while, I feel a sort of pride: I don't need food. Food is for fat people.
And then, like right now, my stomach rumbles. Treacherous body.
In high school, I can remember going a full day eating only an apple. There was another time I ate nothing at all for a whole day. I loved the feeling-- it was all up to me how good I looked, and I was doing a great job.
I wish I could be that person again.
But I have nothing to keep me occupied 24/7 anymore like the musicals/plays/new boyfriends/broken heart did. Eating has become a way to break routine. "Today," I think as I trudge back from the bathroom, "I will have a Fruit Snack for breakfast." Of course, this was only because I had run out of cereal, but it felt like doing something new for a change, so I went with it.
At the same time, food is a constant, steadfast companion. No matter what's going on or what's stressing me out, Goldfish will always have the same wonderful, sweet, cheesy and salty taste.
My stomach has rumbled again. I am diligently ignoring it. It is my policy to never eat after brushing my teeth, and anyway my retainer is in.
I really would like to continue writing, but temporarily I have run out of things to write.
Oh, earlier, when I was in the bathroom, there was a bird outside that sounded as if it was dying. I'm not sure why, but at the time I thought it was amusing and mentally told myself to include that in this journal. So there you have it, self: Birds with throat problems apparently amuse you.
Holy crap that was long. I'll write the actual entry for today later. Until then!