I need to learn to dive before I decide to jump off the high board.

...yeah.

That's all.

I'm starting to get really, really sick of -for lack of a better phrase- being careful about things And I know many would agree that someone with my lack of grace and luck should be as careful as possible but that's only when it comes to things like walking and playing Russian Roulette. It's the other things though that I'm particularly sick of being "careful" about. I think what I'm trying to say without sounding like a stereotypical teenage douche bag is that I don't fucking care anymore. And by that I mean I don't care about what people are telling me I should care about; what they (whoever they are) think I should care about means nothing to me. Of course you can jump to relatively accurate conclusions and safely assume I'm talking about school, but to be honest I'm talking about so much more. To give you (whoever you are) a general idea of what I'm talking about, I've posted this self-incriminating list titled Things I Don't Care About These Days:

1. School

2. My own "healthy" eating habits

3. Gas prices

4. The Middle East

5. Other people's religions

6. My socks matching

7. Fixing the world

8. Where I see myself in ten years

9. Repressed things from my childhood

10. Consistently showing some sort of consideration for other people

And now that I've managed to make myself look like a huge asshole, I actually feel a lot better. I know these are things I "should" care about (yes, even socks matching should be of concern to me) but I just can't lately. Instead I've come to find myself on this unfamiliar level of "interpersonal" and I'm caring about things I've never really cared for. 

I suppose when you use "interpersonal" and "caring" in the same sentence it sort of implies caring for people, huh? Well, as true as that might be it's not the entire thing but I would be lying if I said it didn't touch some sort of base with what I'm talking about. 

I keep losing my train of thought so I'm going to leave that right where it's at, but wrap it all up into one statement:

I've realized there is more to care about than fixing the world and making some sort of impression on the world. At this point in time I feel as though it would be more rewarding to change a few people's lives, or even just one person's life, for the better. On one side of the scale I have the chance to improve the world and it's well being and on the other, much more appealing side of the scale I have the chance to make just one or two people's lives better or easier or happier. I choose the latter. I choose the latter because the other option,well,  I just don't fucking care about the other option. As far as I'm concerned, it becomes less and less of an option every day while the other option becomes more and more of a need and a genuine desire every hour of every day. 

[Exeunt Juliet.]

Have you ever considered the fact that a latte costs more than a tank of gas right now?

                I’ve never really been one to consciously notice opportunity costs, but lately I find myself obsessed with it. If I don’t buy that latte I’ve got a couple extra bucks for a few extra miles of gas. If I do buy that latte though I should stay home or ask a friend to drive, just in case, you know? It’s an annoying obsession because I’ve never been one for money or math and the two together are just bad news.

                Along with opportunity costs, I’ve been singing a lot more than usual. Wouldn’t it be nice if it were possible to have an out of body experience at any given moment of the day? I would listen to myself sing and decide, for myself, if I can sing or not. Sometimes I really wish I were still some sort of performer. I don’t want the attention, or the acknowledgment, I think I just need some alternative form of stress relief.

The Mentally Unstable Times

Volume 1, Issue 1                        17 November 2008

The Good, The Bad, and the Unhealthy

Local blogger spends weekend in Urgent Care

making a fool out of herself in more ways than one.

In just a matter of one weekend a no-name blogger was rushed to urgent

care because of a persistent pain in her chest. The pain, which was said to have 

lasted over an hour, radiated all down her left arm and into her finger tips. When

in the care of doctors she was hooked up to a heart monitor where her irregular 

heart beat annoyed her for over an hour. The medical faculty also ran many tests

on her including an EKG, blood work after five tubes of her blood were taken, and 

a chest X-ray. At the end of the night she was prescribed Xanax and left thinking

maybe the pains in her chest would go away.

Little did she know that two days later she would be [carefully] walking down 

some steps at a local park where she managed to roll her ankle and twist her knee.

If not for her boyfriend who had conveniently been where he was to catch her she

probably would have dislocated her knee as well. Once again, she made her way to 

urgent care to have more X-rays and more doctors touch and poke her. Amidst the 

wrapping of her "severely sprained but possibly fractured ankle" the girl went into

an extremely serious panic attack. The attack lasted for over forty five minutes and

she was injected with some clear substance that was supposed to have calmed her

down.  Of course, it did nothing but make her really high by the time she got home.

Before leaving Urgent Care though a doctor asked questions about her panic attacks

and put the girl on antidepressants, making sure to tell her parents to get her in to see

a specialist. 

We know have word that the girl is skipping therapy and going straight to see a

psychiatrist because her parents finally understand what she meant when she told 

them she was losing it.

I am feeling especially imaginary today. I am no thing and no one and non-existent. 

Something new? A real blog?

Two o'clock in the morning and what am I doing?

Talking to my mother about my pot-smoking habits in Hawaii and not sleeping.

You would think that would be an awkward conversation but it really wasn't. I was honest; what do I have to be ashamed about? Besides, the conversation before that really was a whole lot of awkward. For reasons I will never try to understand my mother talks about sex a lot. She has no shame. I, on the other hand, do not feel that sex is a topic of casual conversation with one's mother, especially when the terms "statutory rape" and "carnal" are involved.

You can put the pieces of that uncomfortable puzzle together and figure out what she was getting at. 

In other news, I know I should be sleeping right now. And I know I should get up early and do all my homework, but there are just not enough hours in the day. Lately I've had this undying urge to pack some of my things up (mostly clothes, books, water), convince a couple people they love me more than their lives, hop in my car and GO. Due to my recent run in with a lack of motivation and more time spent thinking about how relatively pointless living is, its been getting harder and harder to pretend like I care about things that I'm expected to care about, namely this semester of school. In all honesty, I can't stand this semester of school. It's been nothing but horrible (academically) and I really just feel like it was a huge waste of my time. I know this is the part where I should be motivated to get my shit together and do well, but really, I feel like I'm already doing this bad may as well finish it out. I'm kind of hoping I get my act together sometime soon because I can't afford to do bad in school. How embarrassing. Seriously though, if I weren't already knee deep in student loans I can't pay for I would be flying down the highway on some random road to nowhere. That's what life should be. Not school. Not money. Not careers; going. Life is about going and doing, both of which I only had a taste of. I crave them both again. Can we please run away?

painting, panting, clenching, clutching.

I'm not usually so self conscious about what I put on here but for some reason I have this insanely overwhelming feeling that no matter how cryptic I am, someone is going to know what I'm talking about. So I'm going to paint a picture instead. 

My picture is going to be painted in a paragraph or less. It's a paint by words and there aren't very many colors to it, just a lot of reds and oranges and pinks. The first step to seeing my picture is to imagine the most beautiful sunset you've ever seen. Now take that sunset and set it against the blackest hills you can imagine and take a snapshot of what this sunset looks like at it's purest and  most beautiful moment. The ratio of orange-red and black has to be just right. Now imagine yourself somewhere high up, watching this sunset and doing something that puts you at ease. Are you holding someone's hand? Are you wearing a certain jacket? Are you there with a group of people or are you alone? Whatever it is, imagine it. Feel it. Now take another snapshot. Next, I need you to imagine you are somewhere you are completely comfortable being holding that last snap shot in your hand. You're looking at this picture and you're remembering that feeling from that moment. Everything should be orange-red, black, comforting, and warm. Finally, the last step to seeing my picture is to close your eyes and take a very deep breath while clenching your fists. Hold this breath in for a second while you imagine that picture. Now exhale slowly while unclenching your fists as your breath leaves your body.

And that, my friends, is a masterpiece. 

In an attempt to avoid a ridiculously annoying blog about a ridiculously annoying subject, I'm going to talk about meaningless, inconsequential things like hiccoughs and itchy eyes. It just so happens that I have both the hiccoughs and itchy eyes and as annoying as they are I am not wishing them away because they're turning out to be a change of topic.

But still, I want to tell you how convinced I am that I am no longer living in reality. It's as though different elements of every book I've ever read have fused together to create this insanely overwhelming non-reality. I can't lie, either; it's insanely awesome. I kind of wish I could send out a few invitations to my little non-reality I'm in over here but I realize how ridiculous that might sound:

Dear You,

You have been cordially invited to Stephanie's Spectacular Non-Reality where you're only one wardrobe away from sword fighting with vampires and holding hands with dark lords. Your presence would be greatly appreciated, and if you intend on visiting don't forget to bring your sleeping bag and finest dress robes for a grand ball inside a floating ball room(glass slippers and rose-colored glasses optional).

Send your R.S.V.P with the faerie included with this invitation. 

Yours in one way or another,

Stephanie.

But then again who wouldn't want to come visit?

Anyway, these hiccoughs have yet to cease and on top of being itchy, my eyes are heavy. I can't believe I'm so hesitant to finally end the day.