For the Future

So! Hey! I got into UCL!

Yes, that's right. Graduate school. In London. Me. Graduate school. It seems I'm still processing that information, no? I'm also waiting to hear back from Oxford, which is undoubtedly my first choice. (Just so you know, UCL would be a one-year taught MA programme in European History, while Oxford would be a two-year research MPhil programme is Modern British and European History. Better. Plus, in Oxford, so DOUBLE BETTER.)

I was very excited when I received the letter from UCL, as might be expected, since I don't think I really believed I would be accepted anywhere. Of course Daddy Dearest manage to take all the joy out of the experience. He and I don't talk -- like, at all -- so I thought it would be a nice gesture for me to share my good news with him. After a half-hearted "Congratulations," his first words were "How much is this going to cost?" and "What are you going to do to get this money?" Yes, these practical questions are important, but do they need to be the first thing he says to me? Can't he just let me enjoy the moment? Besides, I'm not asking my parents for any money on this -- I'm saving up money to spend and taking out loans for tuition and expenses if I don't get any scholarships. But as daddies do, he motherfucking killed the joybuzz.

In any case, if I get into Oxford, I won't let him do that. This might sound petty, but I just won't tell him I got in. There's actually no reason for him to know, since he's not involved in my life, I won't be asking him for money for school, and he'll never visit me. And this way I won't give him the satisfaction of taking away my joy and I won't have to give any of it up.

Whew. That does all sound a bit overly-emotional and childish, but considering our "relationship," I think it's pretty much par for the course. I don't know why I'm all upset about it really.

In any case: GRADUATE SCHOOL. ME.

City of Angels

"Sometimes you forget how mad this city is, and then you get on the roads and you see it up close and personal, smell the rotten stink of insanity on her breath. The people may seem like polite, well-mannered, well-adjusted folks, but then you hit those streets and you see how miserable they really are. There’s no regard for the sanctity of human life - mine, yours, their own - on these concrete rivers. Sometimes you’ll turn a corner and they’ll just be standing there in the middle of the road: Blank. Unaware. Waiting. Hoping. Praying for the sweet release of death."

-- Robert Brockway on Los Angeles

PS OK, this is really a bit from a nonsensical comedy piece of his on Cracked.com, but it is so brilliantly accurate.

Put the Kettle On

My good friends, the world is not flat (http://www.myspace.com/theworldisnotflat -- ohmigoodness, what a beautiful banner), have released a new album. As a friend and a FAN! (fan!), I bought it; it arrived this week. But! But. This album ("to both sides, dear") makes me feel so alone and warm and angry and strong and tired and pained and sad and renewed and (maybe?) hopeful. (I believe these emotions echo some of the the ones I felt when I heard their first CD.) This album is full of memories of the only place I've ever loved and the only me I've ever wanted to be.

I know there are many, many other influences and inspirations for this album, but the lyrics seem to have come from my own pain, my own pleasure, my own heart; "If I had to choose a place the day they run out of fuel and have to ground all the planes, you know that I would choose right here in this big, old house with you." It's January in England.

Gawd, I don't want to be repetitive, but Oxford, I miss you, I love you, I want you, I need you.

Roxy and Chris, you are everything I always wanted to be but never could.

I Stand Corrected

I don't have to be angry all the time! To-day is what I would call a Good Day, and it's not even 1pm.

Cases in point:
*I didn't want to go to the gym, but I convinced myself to anyway, and I ended up having a good workout.
*While at the gym, the girl I've been eyeing and chatting with for a while asked for my number and e-mail address. (OK, not like THAT, it's because she's going on tour with GUNS 'N' ROSES as their MASSAGE THERAPIST for at least six months and she wants to keep in touch. DO YOU SEE WHY SHE IS SO COOL? Plus, you know how most people sweat when they work out? She just glows.)
*Just after that I found a quarter, heads-up on the floor.
*A friend gave me something I've been waiting for for a few days.
*I was reminded that WORDS ARE SO COOL. This job can be mind-numbingly mechanical at times, but now and again, I come across something here that really makes me happy. Like WORDS.

Oh, and!
*Last night I booked my flight to return to Oxford for a few days in the Spring and attend my very first Wadstock.
*Last night was the first evening in weeks that I didn't get drunk and sad and alone. I've been regularly having incredible amounts of lousy wine every day, but I'm going to take a break from that now. And I began it yesterday.

Life's not all lousy.

Default

Anger is my default mode.

Lately when I've been frustrated or fearful about my applications or lonely and cold in the Los Angeles sun or when I see the ones I love so far away loving each other and I think of my impotence a fear, I just get angry.

I am so angry at myself for letting myself love when I said I wouldn't, for drinking with you till we couldn't talk and I crawled into your bed to not-talk again, for drinking alone till I couldn't walk or keep things straight in my head, for studying so hard I didn't find time to fit myself between the two of you, and for slacking off and ruining my chances to ever do it again.

I have been so angry in my sadness lately, and the self-loathing means I'm even more alone. When did this happen?

Straws

Lately, the only honest, non-stilted writing I do is when I am all-a-drink-a-roo. It is not good or safe or peaceful; it is rarely inspired. But this is something I scribbled last night, this is some piece of my soul as I grasp at familiar-but-fading straws:

The closest you'll have to something upon which to depend is the mist of your favorite perfume on your wrist. Perhaps then you won't feel so alone under the covers, resting your head against your arm (skinonskin) in the dark. When it fades too soon, you press the glass edge of the empty bottle to your veins, not even a drop left to spray, hoping to catch some scent upon your skin.

It's gone. All. Gone.

YOU ARE ALONE.

Ad-dick-shun

Things I've (Lately) Worried I'm Addicted To:
Work
Alcohol
Being Busy
Cheese
Feeling needed
Cocaine
Attention

Things That Make Me Think There are Other Things to Worry About:
Work
My dad coming into my room with produce in his hands asking, "Rina, can you tell me which of these is a pomegranate and which is a persimmon?"
My dad coming into my room fewer than five minutes later asking, "Rina, wait, I forgot, can you tell me again? Which of these is a pomegranate and which is a persimmon?"
Graduate school applications and all the strings attached, especially my referees. In this category, the health problems my referees have had; they put my "needs" in perspective
Sleep
So much art coming in at work; the whole lot of it makes me feel like a teeny, tiny cog in the whole operation.

In any case, I need to focus on:
Applications
Work
Sleep

I think this is what "Life" is supposed to be. I'm not looking forward to it.