A Little Bit of Honesty (because I don't have a second major)

I felt that a little bit of brutal honesty (mostly directed at yours truly) might help me begin to find an answer to my momentary predicament, and so I will be illuminatingly blunt and shamelessly self-deprecating as I scrape at the insides of my brain with a plastic coffee spoon. I'm not the kind of person who can bite my tongue, bury my head in a textbook, and go through with something that I am not interested in. I'm also not the kind of person who has the guts to mindlessly pursue my passions. I'm that grey-feathered breed. Too weary to turn left and too afraid to turn right so I sit at home on a monday night and spill my confusion out into pixelated squiggles on a tiny laptop. I fear mediocrity more than I fear calculus more than I fear the depths of hell. I cannot make a decision about which spatula to buy at Ikea, god forbid my grilled cheese turns out to be unsuitable for the queen of england so instead I buy a blanket, which (physically and metaphorically) makes me feel safe. Needless to say, I cannot make a decision about anything that has any sort of consequence lasting more than seventeen seconds. I am a condiment in a world of entrees and only desperately and foolishly hope that someone will like red pepper flakes on their pizza (or a mini concert at their social gathering). On those occasions when I feel the need to despair at my shortcomings I spiral into a poetically tragic black hole, graphite-lead on discarded notebook paper. I think too much about food on average and I think too little about it when I am ingesting a heart-stopping lard-burger dripping in ground beef. I delude myself by believing that it is a privilege to be intellectually superior to those pretty powder-puffed girls who pay for their bewitchingly soft voices with daddy's plastic as they struggle with their love-hate relationship with food. And I tell myself it's a privilege to not be a slave to consumerism but I am a slave to pop-commercialism instead because fuck iMacs and long live Lady Gaga. Everything that comes out of my mouth is nothing more than a hologram-like muttering that only gently brushes the surface of reason then bounces back irreverently from the powerful gravity of some ugly truth that escapes me. Whenever I promise myself not to be indulgently verbose, I end up becoming indulgently verbose. So here's a good one: I am retardedly dull in person and fat. I hate people who are self-absorbed only because I don't like myself enough to be absorbed by the self. I am bad at chasing giant orange-striped balls and throwing them into wire circles eight feet above the ground and other so-called "sports". I am embarassingly tactless at the most inopportune moments. I am often delusional enough to feel at the top of the world when I am not reminded somehow that I can't read textbooks or decipher calculus squigglies or talk to real people and that I don't have a real major and that I am up at 3 AM spinning my little web of brutal honesty and fantasizing that people might like me for who I am but then I remember that honest approval is an ever-dangling carrot attached to a string attached to a fishing rod attached to my sneakers.

I would like to attribute any self-contempt above to hearty candidness and lack of sleep rather than actual contempt-worthiness.

the art of making yourself want to crawl into a hole in the universe and ctrl+z your early teenage years

and of course i was just reading my old blog that i kept in 9th and 10th grade (xanga.com/immaturitymuch?). i dont remember ever liking the color black so very much...needless to say, reading my old xanga makes me feel like i just swallowed a spoonful of coffee grounds and the aftertaste makes me BLEGH.

i think im gonna try to take up songwriting again. (years of self-indulgent emo-ing could only help, right?) one of my problems: i never like to write things down, especially not little bursts of musical ideas which require staff paper or some retardedly contrived ink blobs method scribbled onto some paper napkin. yup, i've definitely done that before. usually when i come up with a phrase in my head that i really like and want to hold on to, i just repeat it over and over as if that could imprint it in my memory, at least long enough for me to turn on my computer and open sibelius and create a new score and select instruments and select font and establish time and key sig and oh screw it. memory will do.

im going back to austin tomorrow. hopefully the weather will be forgiving.

im starving for some spinach and cheese quiche.

the art of deporting oneself to the moon

i've noticed that my grades decline every time i start a new blog. jk my grades are probably constantly declining -_-

coffee spoons...it would make me very happy (and impressed) if someone could perceive the reference

tonight is one of those autumn afternoons when the leaves are falling nicely and u feel like sitting on a grassy hill and sipping iced tea. though right now its neither autumn nor afternoontime.

still, i feel lightheaded and somewhat distant from myself, like i'm sitting in a portrait or a screenplay. must be the lack of sleep/food/sugar.

hmm i think rishi is confused. it's so hard for me to understand how it would be difficult for a person to look answer questions about themselves. i mean, who else do you know better other than yourself?

anyways. a taco would be magnificent right now.

This first entry isn't even written by me, it's written by Rishi (insert short description). My hope (Rishi) is that Patty uses this blog as an outlet for her fleeting emotions, assorted thoughts, and interesting observations about the world. Probably less about the latter. My hope is that she writes to her heart's content. No deleting, no backspace, only candor.

Lets see how it goes, I'll check in frequently.