So today was like every other day, but only raw and unrehearsed. I'm in debt. I've a thesis to revise. And apparently I write like Charles Dickens. O well, right. What can you do. You sort of just have to allow yourself to float through it all. Enjoy the ride, but have a destination in mind.

My life has not turned out the way I expected it to. And for that I am glad. I am not who I was even a month ago. And for that I too am glad.

I've spent my life searching for all the answers. And I've found that the answers are inconsequential. It's the questions that matter.

So, guess who's 50 pages in thus far, and without really putting in that much effort? Me. I know. Once I stop worrying about it and just do it, the pages almost type themselves. So, I'm very pleased and hope in the end I'll have a thesis to be proud of. But, as I know, I speak about my thesis at great lengths, it is not the entirety of my life. I just have to quantify everything out loud...like 2 pages down, 48 to go...that sort of thing. But I am learning to be more invested in the present. Recently I went on a pseudo-date with a sketchy almost-homeless man---disaster, of course, but as a favorite man of mine once said, at least it supplies me with stories...and has this man seen the workings and then the retellings of all these humorous stories. And speaking of this man, I find that I continuously get reeled back into him. I wish I didn't, but, indeed, I do. O well, I'm sure it's just a lesson I need to learn...and one day it won't matter anymore, and until that day comes, I just need to deal with the tumult of emotions that go along with his charm.

God, though, don't you hate charming men. Normally I can smell game from a mile away; it never works on me. But with this certain individual I am powerless over his boy-like charm.

I know I'm crazy. Life never really changes does it. It always surprises me how I can be away from someone for a long amount of time and then when reconnected it's like no time passed at all. I guess I like that. I really don't know why I'm being so sentimental, but I suppose that's who I am.

Speaking of who I am, Miss Sambuco alerted me to the fact that I, indeed, have a complex. I only like men, so far as they are unattainable. Bummer, right? I supppose it's just the chase I'm after. That game of cat and mouse. Yet, as soon as I know I can have someone, I immediately start assessing them for their faults. I think, in the end, I'm terrified of relationships. My whole life I've been living for freedom and independence.

O well, must go.

Ok, so right now, I'm supposed to be working on my thesis, but I'm sort of at a standstill, so I figure, this may give me time to recharge. So to recap on the whole thesis thing, I am 37.5 pages in and about a page and revision from finishing my second chapter. Thank God! So I guess I should say that I have actually not really worked on my thesis at all till now. Don't know why exactly. I've really been wasting a lot of time. And I did start working this weekend...yes, I'm back at Blues. It's amazing how easy it was to just fall right back into everything--like I hadn't been gone at all. And not actually serving but just helping out where I'm needed is a lot less stressful. A lot. Thank you dear fortune who is looking down on me. And I must say, at night I became the bouncer both Friday and Saturday night. And I just want to throw this out there, no one likes the bouncer. Especially when she is a 5'2" girl with pig-tails. Yeah--I think people are upset by the irony. Like why should she wield power over anyone, let alone drunk men. But hey, someone has to do it. I just find it hilarious that that person is moi. It at least adds to my repertoire of funny anecdotes, right? And I've learned I am quite theatrical. I guess I just like to entertain, so why not embellish and exaggerate for dramatic effect? It makes life so much more enjoyable. Yes, I'm a joke whore. And I love it.

I guess I'll now attempt to finish this stupid chapter and hope that on Thursday, when I meet with my adviser, that she will approve of my work thus far. But who knows, I could do all this work and still end up with a lousy grade. That's how the world works, isn't it. Or perhaps all this hard work will pay off and I'll be rewarded....

But then, in the end, does it matter either way?

So today guess what I'm going to do? After my thesis meeting I'm going to curl up with my new book and lots of hot chocolate and ignore the world. It is going to be magnificent. I can't even begin to really tell anyone how much I've missed by not reading these guilty pleasures---to just read for the fun of it---for the plot--for where it will take me---not for the critique or the analysis. Ah. Glorious guilty pleasures.

Anyway, hope this thesis meeting goes well.

Did I mention that my bff from Denver (but we knew each other in Ireland) drove from DC to see me yesterday? She only came for a couple hours but it was perfect. I like short visits. Doesn't give people enough time to get over the initial "I'm so glad you're here!" So yes, very delightful. Hadn't seen her in over a year.

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I read an old journal this afternoon in Mill Mountain. We had to go there because my building was being swarmed by, apparently, good looking firemen. I forgot to look to see if they were attractive. Those thoughts never really occur to me till afterwards. I remember being in Italy for like 4 days and not really paying attention at all to Italian men, and now I keep hearing about them and thinking "dammit, why do I never pay attention." It is true, I go throughout life oblivious to what's around me. Perhaps I'll work on it. O yes, the building--actual problem with the electrical room...but all ok now. And thus that is why I went to Mill Mountain, and thus why I read this journal from this past summer.

I actually liked what I wrote. My voice is very simplistic and to the point; yet, it's my voice. I actually enjoyed seeing where I was in that point. But the weird thing is that I didn't see it as myself, but as another. Almost as if I was viewing it objectively. Ah....those memories though. I had almost forgotten about them. Perhaps one day I'll write my memoirs. I have quite enough stories. But yes, the journal. It mainly dealt with my stint as a waitress in a bar and my overheard conversations. I don't know why I never continued with creative writing. I fear, it has to do with my insecurities. Eh. I'll get over it one day.

You know, from reading those entries, I wish I were less optimistic...yet I still wish I were less pessimistic. Sometimes I get too stuck in my head. And what I create is not really real. Like I always say "Give me realism, or give me death!"

Realism was that genre I never tired of. I could read autobiography after autobiography. Ah...takes me back to Ireland. Takes me back to days where I read for the pure enjoyment of it. Life was so uncomplicated then. Yet, do I want to change what I have now. No, I don't think so. I like where I am. And I'm starting to like who I am.

I've accomplished nothing today. Notta. Eh....I guess some days have to be spent doing nothing. Guess we can't be productive all of the time. Perhaps it will be good for me...this day of rest. So tomorrow I can get back on schedule, you know. Get some pages done.

I hope I get a good job post-grad. Making lots of money. Supporting myself and taking care of my step-sister and enabling me to do grad work for teaching. Dear God, please send me down your blessings. Please!

So today, I told Carmen the whole story of No-Electricity man...and as dumb as it sounds, that was probably my best sexual experience. I guess I've never been in love. I've always skirted around the subject...fallen for the wrong men...usually just gay men. The man who shall not be named, who I've been head over heels with forever, might even be gay. Hey, at least I'm consistent.

I'm just really needing a day of solitude. Sometimes I just need to be alone.

For the past week, or more, I've had an exceedingly pleasant time waking up and entering my day; yet, today was the exception. For some reason my mind kept saying, "stay here in bed--this will be just like any other day." And I listened. It was quite depressing, and I fear that it was because I astrally traveled last night. The theory is that when you wake after astrally projecting you feel a desire to return to wherever you were traveling to (probably the other side) and that you don't particularly want to return to the monotony of your earth life. So yes, these were my first thoughts upon waking. When I tell people this, I usually get a mixed reaction: about 50/50 response of "you're crazy" or "I can see it." You never know which it will be.

In fact, people always surprise me when I tell them about my spiritual background and my various experiences in that field of the paranormal. But people are always interested nonetheless. In Ireland, where 90% are practicing Catholics, I had a major turn out for tarot readings, but still they were reserved and were constantly asking me if this predetermined them to hell. The Americans in the bunch took to it as mere "entertainment" not religious blasphemy. It was fun, a novelty: nothing too serious for my fellow non-practicing Americans.

When I returned to Roanoke I found lots of friends who in fact only wanted me for my abilities. When you have something others find "rare" you have to be careful. I have had to really analyze my friendships. But usually I always know when someone is using me and which people genuinely like me and my neurosis. It's hard to fool a psychic. But, then again,  I don't really consider myself a "psychic" in the least--just a little more in tune than most people. The term "psychic" has too many negative connotations and it comes with too much responsibility.

One of my favorite memories with the paranormal (or whatever we will call it) lies in a bar I used to work in and a certain man with bewitching eyes and smiles. This man for some reason was completely unreadable to me, which was a rarity in itself--and I believe part of his intrigue. I was hooked by his unpredictability--by the fine woven web of love and hate when it involved me. And I remember when he first learned of my "hobbies;" he never flinched, never blinked, in fact, he acted completely indifferent---which I found irresistible. I guess all those stereotypes are true about love. If someone is used to being fawned after, feign indifference. If you want to catch someone's eye, make them believe you think very highly of this person. It's all true; and I've learned it all from Austen, and the experiences of my own life. But I'm digressing into another thing entirely. So back to the "paranormal" or whatever---so his indifference was intoxicating---it was this indifference --as if he knew, he believed, didn't question, but still neglected to see me as an anomaly or anything of the sort. One day we were setting up for the day and we were extremely slow, and I was in very high spirits, and he was complaining about his knees---so I just placed my hands gently on his knees and poured light and energy and well wishes into his knees. I can't explain it, but while doing it this wonderful energy spread over me in this very religious, very spiritual way--and it worked. He doesn't complain about his knees anymore. And as he's reserved when it comes to speaking he even once mentioned that when it comes to things like this "you just have to go with it." ---and see how my heart stopped over and over for this mystifying libertine. Sometimes logic needs to be thrown out the window.

Ah. So today I'm going to some show thing and hopefully finishing the first chapter of my thesis, which shouldn't be hard since it only requires a page and a half more. Goody!!!  So although this morning hasn't exactly been productive (i.e. it's been spent doing this and drinking tea) I'll have a much more illustrious-like day. I think that Irish Breakfast Tea really helped put me in better spirits. I do miss the tea in Ireland, nothing in the states quite compares.

My thesis adviser recently made me a potion of Aspen and Star of Bethlehem. It's a bach flower mix to help alleviate anxiety. For the most part, it works, but I've been a little inconsistent with taking it. I think it's a theme in my life---growing bored too easily and moving on way too quickly; yet, the irony is, that I tenaciously hold onto the past--and contribute much influence to the past and how it's created the present.

I have a tendency of rambling. perhaps I'm trying to do as Mr. Bingley does in Pride and Prejudice---claiming that my thoughts are fragmented because my progression of thought is so fast and disjointed that it makes it nearly impossible to be entirely coherent. Perhaps this is my way of pretentiously claiming "I'm better than the rest," but in all honesty, I find it hard to focus. I can't even truly tell a story from beginning to end. I always start in the middle and move about with flashbacks and postulations of future scenarios. I guess I like that unlinear quality of my stories; it's too clean when we begin from the beginning and end with some didactic moral. Most of our stories don't necessarily have a meaning. That's why we spend so much time trying to rationalize and create meaning. We as people, for the most part, act without thinking. We can't account for our actions. It's as if we're marionettes being guided along by our past, our experience, our genes, our mood of the moment. Yet, we always look for the deeper meaning--analyze the actions of our friends and lovers.

See, I told you so, I spend too much time in thinking about everything and nothing. I was never really good about keeping diaries where I recorded the minute progressions of a day. Perhaps that's because those are not the actions that matter. Instead, we should follow the minds progressions and record those actions only as it relates to our own revelations and such. I remember when I spent a semester in Ireland, I bought this new leather bound journal that tied across the front; it was a facsimile of a journal an old friend bought me when I was in high school, and I determined that I would document my time spent there. Yet, most of the time I sat down and wrote out fictitious prose-poems based on inspiring moments and people and places. But in the end, I think that was the only desirable kind of writing I could have done with that life changing semester--those four months spent in complete selfishness. Wandering about with new friends, discovering places which had until then only been the substance of myth, classes with anti-american professors, philosoph meetings with philosophical 20-somethings, Halloween reading the Catholics' tarot, coffeehouse rendezvous. 

It's those memories that make me who I am today. Those far off memories where I stepped out of the shadow of myself and embraced the shadows of all those around me.

It's the last semester at school so most of my time is spent in thinking of what I've done and what I'm going to do. My friend Carmen and I spend our lunch breaks divulging the secrets of Roanoke and how the past four years have been everything and nothing. We've both romanticized this city of lights and bars, as if without our perception it would crumble and self-destruct. I keep supplying her with vignettes for a screenplay; I never realized how colorful my experience has been until I spent hours recounting.

I can visualize the screenplay. I want to see it enacted as I do in my head. I always imagine writing out my memoirs and creating something---add a little of this, a little of the nanny that rocks the cradle, of the girl other girls want, of everything---how we each live a story we forget to share.  I should now start working on my thesis. O joy! The divinity of Jane Austen and 18th century female education!