hmeh.

Might as well start typing in here more often, even if there isn't much to say.  I hear rambling is an ok part of life.

Damn, I'm just so... so... juiced.  Yeah.  Like a lemon.  I've still got zest, but I've ran out of flavor.  (God, what an awful analogy.)  Anything creative just takes too much time.  I have a bar of dark chocolate with almonds that has sat there (open, mind you) on my desk for four days now.  I'm just waiting for the ants.  I don't want to do anything about it.

Reading the Silmarillion now.  I need one of those pens that have the page flaggers and the highlighter and little post-its and stuff so I can learn to my heart's content.  It's not a story so much as a... Bible, really.  It's even written like it, where there's Iluvatar the One and the Ainur and the Children of Iluvatar which become Men and Elves... and the Two Trees of Valinor and the tale of Luthien (yes, Luthien!) and Beren the One-Hand... and Elrond and stuff.  Bah.  I eat it up.

I sent my application to GSA in and now I have nearly a month to get my portfolio together.  I haven't been writing any poetry lately (all the stuff on DeviantArt is just pretty much an amateur's attempt at the Gloriousness that is (apparently) e.e. cummings, which nearly always ruins it (I won't read his work because I keep thinking of the souls that feel so inspired and rich and elitist but know nothing, nothing)...

And so the Mad Girl's Love Song plays on (you have to admit that Gwenyth Paltrow did a great job in that role).

And Sylvia Plath's poetry wasn't that great, I mean, Blue Moles?  Come on.  And Lady Lazarus was so... I dunno.

I suppose I prefer the way of the paragraph rather than the way of the stanza.

I've also decided on 3 definitive career choices.... either a counseling psychologist, a school counselor, or an editor.  I'd probably have to travel to a major city to edit, and even then read books that aren't really literature, just what the agents pick to sell, and correct mistakes and become incompetent and never want to read anything again.  And school counselors don't make much money and have to deal with angry parents, but I think it would be nice to... feel helpful to teenagers.

But I'm actually a little afraid to pursue psychology.  That daring little violet word, that tricky noose...  I recall the outline of the woman asking me questions and probing me with her mental stethoscope, checking the vitals of my mind and never delving any deeper... offering up tissues like they were the only weight that kept her on the ground.  I won't be like her, if I pursue that.  Dealing with people like me who revel in their problems and their medications like it's some kind of luxurious jewelry to display on the finger.  And I could do it wrong and someone could die.

I want to help people, but I also want to... not.  Have a shell but hang it up on the hook before the morning shift.  I'm hardly sympathetic to others' problems, what about perfect strangers'?

Maybe I don't exactly have this figured out so much yet.