I can't sleep nights, lately;
my mind is too full.
Or perhaps my conscience
is too loud. Either way.

I just don't understand
how to get past this;
I don't know where to lay
all this blame.

It's a contradiction in terms
to be a victimized
perpetrator.

So the way I see it,
either we're both to blame
or there ought to be
a collective absolution.

And then I have two thoughts:

If we are both unclean, who washes this away?
If we are both on the wall, who's holding the guns?

Maybe this would all be easier if I had no heart.

If I didn't love her more than I ever thought I could love. If, every time I think about leaving her, I didn't get a memory in my head. A memory of lying in bed with her, my hand on that spot just above her hip. The spot she hated me to touch, because it either made her feel fat or tickled.

Maybe this would be easier if I could leave her now but still have forever with her, too.

Why isn't love ever enough?
Why is indecision the predisposition of all mankind?
Why isn't life easy?

An Update

So, I'm tinkering with something. A longer piece of writing. I'm not sure where it's going, but I like it so far. If I still like it in a week or so, maybe I'll post some of it here. Also, everyone should check out this website: Overqualified. I have to confess, I found it thanks to Erin, so she already knows about this, but it's really awesome anyway. When the book comes out, I might buy it.

I wish that immortality was easy. I don't mean immortality in the strictest sense, because of course that's impossible. I mean the kind of immortality that Achilles pursued. Kleos, glory, or however you want to conceptualize it. But of course, Achilles fought a ten-year war and died to get it.

I wish immortality was easy. Like logging on to blogger. Type in your e-mail address, your password, and then click, "Remember me."

I stole this from another person's blog. Who obviously stole it from Charles Shulz. But I can't think of anything so perfect as this to describe the way I feel right now.

"Amie, come sit on my wall..."

It's hard for me to not be a little ambiguous here, but I have to be. Some terrible things happened a few months ago (the end of January, to be specific) and I'm really not at liberty to make an all-points bulletin about it. Zach and Emily are on this page, but I'm pretty sure that the rest of you aren't. Privately, though, I'd be willing to fill in the gaps (*coughErincough*).

I just can't stand it anymore. Things are allowed to go wrong and all, but not this wrong. It's not fair. I didn't do anything to deserve this. My family is falling apart from the outside inward. I'm coming unhinged. And no one is trying to fix it. From all sides, my support is dissolving around me, and I'm not sure that I can handle that. Part of me wants to curl up under the covers and cry about it, and the other part makes me want to run as far and as fast as I can. Maybe somewhere in Europe I'll drink myself into such a stupor that I'll forget everyone I ever cared about and start anew. Not Germany, though. My accent is terrible.

Right now, I'm sitting at my desk, listening to my RA's terrible, terrible guitar playing. And the argument raging next door about whether or not the new girl on the fourth floor is fuckable. And I just want it all to go away. Or maybe I want to go away. I don't know.

I don't know.

So right now, I'm listening to probably the stupidest people in the world discuss economics. They're debating whether or not America is slipping as an economic power, and why that might be the case.

In answer to the first: of course it is.

In answer to the second: If people like them are the future drivers of the economy, it's not really a surprise, now, is it?

I hate it when it rains. It's so fucking depressing. I miss the sun again. And also, it means that the assholes in my dorm tend to stay in my dorm. Which is never any fun.

The Verdict is In...

...I like Panic at the Disco's new album. It's catchy as hell in some spots, and I like the lyrics better on this one. I mean sure, it's a Beatles ripoff, but then, a lot of rock music theorists think that everyone rips off The Beatles. To quote Rolling Stone, they're "the fountainhead." Check out "Northern Downpour" and "When the Day Met the Night". Or most of the album. Recommending a song is actually really hard, because it's like recommending a song by The Beatles. Which phase did you like best? (And sorry Zach, I stole your format a little.)

Why can't I be like everyone else?
Why can't I be distracted by consumption like everyone else?
Why can't I just believe in God like everyone else?
Why can't I want that mid-size house in that suburban neighborhood, the one I return to after some mid-level professional day at work?

Why can't I be happy?

Some Concerns I'm Having...

How the fuck am I supposed to be a good FIG leader? Seriously, HOW THE FUCK?! I don't CARE! I FUCKING PATENTED APATHY! Why would I want to help welcome a bunch of Bambi-eyed freshman to this place? I don't really like it. But I don't hate it. If there was a way to go to a better school without leaving the people I care about, I'd be gone in a flash. If the whole fucking library exploded, I would be mildly surprised. Speaking of libraries, that's one of the things that I have to do: plan an activity that teaches the FIGlets how to use the library. Um, let's think...THE FUCKING DIRECTORY!

There's actually a reasonable amount of reading for this course, and SO MUCH busy work. It's kind of astonishing. And horrible. It's a flashback to high school, where I nearly didn't graduate because I see these exercises for what they are: a colossal waste of time. The subject matter obviously has its practical applications, but really? We have to perform plays? And do "character journals"? And discussion questions on BlackBoard? Really?

Unfortunately, yes. Really. Now I have to e-mail the faculty adviser for this FIG, and tell them how excited I am to be teaching a FIG with them on, of all things, Russian literature, which I hate with a passion.