french erotica and anxiety

That’s it chicklets! The deed is done! 3rd year is at its bitter end. The universe rises up in hushed sarcastic applause. I have thrown another 7 grand at a mass corporation mainly involved with mind-rot and ambition-stifling. Oh, it’s university all-right.

Speaking of important things like higher education, who saw the vengeful return of 90210 this week? Me?

She looks like she can bite your face off.

Oh, JUST me. Well, DANG girl, I didn’t know Adrianna had it in her! Ok, that’s a lie. That girl is a psychopath and I knew it from the very beginning – why? Why, because I have a keen and practised eye for the seeking-out of crazies. I attract them like fruit flies to vinegar.

Look at that stare! That is not a happy camper.

Anywhoozers, now that I’m more or less “free” to rot my teeth, puke out all my alcohol-inhibitors and party like it’s 1999 (and let’s be honest, with my recent Dawson’s Creek obsession, partying in 1999 seems pretty. fucking. cool.) – I’m just.. reading? Madame Bovary, to be precise. I realize this puts me somewhere between “Wow. You’re retarded.” and “Complete Social Outcast” but I kind of like this middle ground that I’m inhabiting. It’s weird and comforting and I barely even have to interact with real people anymore, what with my tv shows and my books. My macbook Sebastian is all I need. (Sadly, Seb, this naming was not a coincidence, not just so I could cuddle up to your name as I fall asleep.)

But, I mean, if you feel the strong desire to read old literature at the end of a gruelling year of reading old literature, why not read old French erotica? That was my reasoning, at least. And the fact that I’ve picked up (and put down) this book at least 7 times in the past 4 years because I am a lazy, irresponsible reader and I should not be lucky enough to be blessed with so many wonderful books when all I do is forget about them, then their plots, then reading in general, as I slowly dissolve into a sloth orbiting my kitchen and my bathroom, in turn.

“Eat, then sleep. Wake up, then eat.” – Russian Proverb

FUN FACT: What I’m mainly focused on every moment of my waking life is planning it out in as much detail as possible.

Now, this tends to make me quite anxious when things like MY TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY creep up, and thus leads to nervousness and over-thinking and messaging everyone in the “event,” oh… 17 times to make sure they’re all “really” coming – no, REALLY coming – not like

“Oh, I’m coming but I might bitch out at the last-minute so the people at the restaurant will look down on you all sad and pitying because the promised amount of guests didn’t show up and you are a big fat loser who doesn’t even know how to make friends and oh shit they’re also angry because they could have given that table to somebody else and made money instead of standing there with that pitying look on their face.”

That happens, you know. But it never used to, before Facebook. See, it’s all a matter of leading problems back to their source. In the modern world I’ve found that Facebook is basically the cause of all problems.

  • Unemployment? Facebook is too distracting.
  • Bad grades? Farmville (on Facebook) is too distracting.
  • Acne? Playing Farmville on Facebook is too addictive, thus leading you to stay at your computer and forget to shower for 3 days, ergo causing pimples.
  • Relationship problems? Your status on Facebook.
  • The meaning of life? Facebook has the answer but won’t give it to you unless you win Farmville. (How do you win Farmville? POINT = MADE.)
Anyway, the point is here – and everywhere – that I woke up at 6 a.m. this morning and my sister is currently celebrating the fact that she has a cast on her arm. Well congratu-fucking-lations, kid. You broke your fucking arm. A+ to you.
Tomorrow: adventures in trying to look for jobs whilst still being committed to several hundred morally right and soulfully healthy responsibilities.
Stay tuned!
A.
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4 thoughts on “french erotica and anxiety

  1. I’ve never broken a bone, y’know? I’ve also only been to see a doctor once, when I was 1 — for my first set of inoculations. I had a cold back in 1992, but nothing since then.

    I’m flattered that you named your computer after me! A bit weirded out, too — I mean, if you wanted my soothing/calming/cuddling, then you could just open an IM window, or something. But… hey… you’re a girl, and girls do odd things sometimes…

    Like

    • Okay, well.. that’s a thinking error there on my part. What I MEANT to say was that it WAS a coincidence, and I, in fact, did not creepily name my computer after you. I only found out about you several years after I already had my computer, actually.

      That would be the weirdest internet thing ever though, wouldn’t it?

      Like

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