2018-12-06 18:58:48 (UTC)

i don't remember what it's like to be a person

"Green Gloves" by The National

Falling out of touch with all my
Friends are somewhere, getting wasted
Hope they're staying glued together
I have arms for them

Get inside their clothes with my green gloves
Watch their videos in their chairs
Get inside their beds with my green gloves
Get inside their heads, love their loves

Now I hardly know them
But I'll take my time
I'll carry them over
And I'll make them mine

December 6, 2018 Thursday 6:00 PM

I have been feeling extremely inadequate "lately." And, like, I don't know if this is new at all or if I just dig it out of myself when I need a reason for whatever feeling this is, of being Below. I had this dream Monday night that the coworker I mentioned in my entry "men"—Jack—raped me at gunpoint and it felt like the time I tried to masturbate with a marker (not Fun). The rest of the dream I just struggled to figure out how to laugh and walk around and be a person without remembering; tried to figure out if I was even mad. I saw him at work the morning after this dream and I was like "He Knows" but he definitely didn't. He was normal as always, speaking quietly, winking, etc. And I began overriding my most recent fake memory of him with the reality that he is just a guy who probably does not want to rape me at gunpoint lol.

I had a lot of mind-reading paranoia that day, actually. I met a guy with the same first name as Karina (the shortened version of her real name is unisex—actually, a kid in New Visions also had the same name) and I was low-key convinced he could hear my thoughts alternating between mild interest (in him) and annoyance (at myself for being interested). I kept telling myself, you're reading too many of those really badly translated Webtoons, which utilize a lot of harmful tropes, probably, but like cheesy romance novels they just hit the spot and I can't stop. Anyway. And later that day we had our last poetry class and she happened to ask us to raise our hands if we'd been in love and my hand stayed down. I've experienced a strong emotion towards another person, and I'm not going to say it's Not love, but whatever it was it's gone now and I don't really understand it (nor am I really trying). She said, "How many of you are not interested in romance? Don't be embarrassed, it's ok, aromantic is a thing," and I did a so-so motion and I was the only one lmao. I dunno, it's not that I'm perfectly content alone, it's just that I'm—who I am. I have a hard time understanding another human companion as a possibility.

I'm glad poetry is over. I hated that class. But then again, I hate all of my classes on some level, although maybe not to the degree with which I dislike that poetry workshop. I don't mind the reading most of the time, but sometimes it's all just senselessly obtuse, or in the case of the workshop, it's just bad. And it's so hard to quantify what makes a subjective art form Bad; separate the technical clumsiness from personal taste. As for Russian, I just always feel like I'm bad at it. I'm nervous and I can barely speak in english as it is; can barely hear people speak. It's another thing when I'm sifting through another language, a language that sounds like it's being spoken by people who have cotton for teeth. I mean, no offense—I love that squishiness, the "shhhh shhhh zzhhhh" sounds. But also I get confused because I am dumb.

Not even getting into comparative literature. I can't stress enough: I do not care about literary theory. I do not care who said what and why. I understand that it is foundational and this makes it important and that it's sort of a frontier for new styles of thought but guess what? I...don't care. I'm never gonna write about in the absolute abstract about a general phenomenon like Derrida. That man.......... can go fuck himself. I can't say I understand why he did the things he did in the way he did, but whatever, guess it's just not my thing, whatever, whatever. Just, I wish I didn't have to write about these people. I never want to discuss them; I never want to have high and lofty philosophical conversations over dinner and wine about gender constructs or whatever, when these are discussed just as well in the vernacular over a cheeseburger (to an extent—I am thinking at a certain point if you don't set up linguistic guidelines your arguments can become very confusing, and then eventually those linguistic guidelines might feed into the whole literary theory thing where they say the word "deconstruction" but they give no fucking subject, like what the fuck IS being deconstructed, and they never fucking define it because it can't be defined in a single sentence except for that it probably can and fuck you).

Literary theory is one of those things that is both philosophy and art and I absolutely hate it if you couldn't tell. I'm hesitant to call any of these people who enjoy literary theory... cocky... but lofty, certainly. This isn't accessible language they're using; and it makes you wonder who these theories are even for. Then you realize, there is a lot of theoretical writing on exactly this subject: for whom theory is written. Can it ever really be for the "subaltern"? I mean, the subaltern can't read this writing. If they are able to do that, then they're not subaltern anymore. It's just a huge headache and it doesn't really get me any closer to understanding what this theory is even used for, except for maybe by those who are intelligent and in a position of power or influence in which to exemplify these philosophies.

I don't know. I don't know anymore. It just hurts me in the face. I don't know which I hate more: literary theory or my english class, which is focused on close textual reading, and half the time, I'm so uninterested. I'm like, why? Why castrate this fucking sentence? What does it add to the text? Sometimes, it's very interesting, like with Othello—there's a lot contained in the speeches that we can use to try and deconstruct the inner workings of Othello's mind (beyond the superficial jealousy—like, what is motivating this jealousy? Why is he prone to jealousy? And that's where my literary theory actually came into use, because I was thinking about this postcolonial theorist that wrote "Black Skin, White Masks" and how he essentially outlined Othello's mental issues, and how last semester I read the postcolonial novel Season of Migration to the North and that contained both of these ideas and just—so good).

Other times it's just like, ooo, look how erotic this passage is, and then it takes some brain power on my part to figure out why that matters. In other words, it doesn't always feel like the professor is teaching us how to connect the figurative language to its place in the text itself, like what it does to enhance its emotional impact or to reiterate its main idea, etc. etc. Instead it feels a bit like he throws these ideas of ~eroticism~ and ~ecstasy~ at us, and I only just recently realized we are supposed to be thinking of these concepts, not as free-floating objects, but in terms of the work and how it.... works. I dunno, maybe it was obvious to everyone else and I am just dumb. Our professor is clearly a scholar, and he loves lecturing, that much is clear. But he is so caught up in his own head; I've found that a lot of professors are like that (cough cough—dad!). Plus, honestly, I hate close-reading analysis. But I guess that's why I'm not an English major, lmao.

Yeah, so. In conclusion, I am dumb and stupid and tired and lonely. I've had a lot of trouble sleeping, I'm frantically consuming fan fiction and romance genre webtoons and Sam O' Nella videos, I'm anxious about everything I've said to my friends, I simultaneously love/miss them and avoid them, I am worried that they don't want me or that they will decide they don't want me, that they'll realize I'm v uninteresting and dull and dumb, I'm exhausted by 10pm, and I desperately do not want to take my finals.

We—Maria, Nadiya, and I—are supposed to go to dinner with Goose tomorrow, since he's back from France for idk-how-long. I am dreading seeing him for reasons I can't quite place, and I haven't had time or motivation to consider it. I mean, I'm worried if I realize why I'm worried I'll be even more worried. Hahaha. So, why do that to myself?

Been masturbating a lot this week, and I keep thinking to myself, why am I so horny when my self-esteem is so low? Like, what about when I probably felt pretty like 3 weeks ago and I did not masturbate? Huuuuhhh?????? Also, I felt way more relieved about my rape dream after I masturbated to the thought of it; like, after that, it didn't hang around in my head as much. It was like I exorcised a demon. Not only that, I was compelled to do this in the middle of the day, rather than wait until night like I usually do. It was craaaazy. A crazy time. Not really, I'm just—ugh, I'm tired.

Ok. Time to do homework. I'm sitting in this library like a Fool rn.