RFotD:
The word "television" has a hybrid etymology - tele derived from the Greek tēle which means "far off" and vision from the Latin vīsiō, past participle of vidēre, meaning "to see"

Weight:
103 lbs

Consumption:
2 chaps
eggplant
okra

Aimless Ramblings:
I Want My Life Back.

I’m tired of feeling like shit all the time. I’m tired of being miserable. I’m tired of having no escape at all. There isn’t a single person who doesn’t make me hurt. There isn’t a single place I can go to get away from the pain. Even if I could find a place that wasn’t fraught with associations, I couldn’t get away from myself, and right now, I’m the person I hate most.

I have a confession to make. It’s not really a secret or anything, but I’m still not sure how to feel about it. I still love my Ex. There, I said it. A few months ago, just when I thought things were getting serious with Baggage, he asked me to get back together. He said a lot of things that night that made me spend the rest of the evening crying. I hated him, at the time, for toying with my emotions. Now, I wonder whether he sincerely wanted the changes he said he would make to our relationship, to make it work. If he did, I’m an idiot for not giving “us” a chance. There was a lot about our relationship that was unhealthy. There were a million reasons why we shouldn’t have been together; a billion reasons why we wouldn’t work. But, at the end of the day, he is still the person I want to talk to when I’ve had a rough day; the only person I would even consider opening up to about what I am thinking and feeling about my own life; the person I want to spend time with. There is a part of me wants so badly to drive over to his house, throw myself into his arms, and beg him to forgive him. And yet… I can’t. I won’t. Pride? Possibly. Protection? Partially. Primarily, though, it’s the knowledge that no matter how hard we may try, things will never be the same between us.

And it’s entirely because of Baggage. I wish I had never met him. He keeps insisting that we are friends. We are NOT friends. We work together, and are affable and pleasant in this context. But I don’t want to have anything to do with him. I tried really hard to give him the benefit of the doubt; I tried to believe that we’d figure things out. But time after time, he disappoints me, and I’m tired. I can’t do this to myself anymore. I can’t care anymore. I don’t want to care anymore. I’ve deleted him on MSN. I wish I didn’t have to see him every day at the office, but there’s nothing I can really do to avoid him there. In all other circumstances and situations, though, I am throwing in the towel. I don’t want to have anything to do with him.

I haven’t been happy with who I am for a long time. But these past few months have turned me into someone I actually dislike. Between having things fall apart with the Ex, all the drama with Baggage, moving back in with my parents, and getting off the meds and therapy, I’m a total mess. And the one person who can make me feel better can no longer be there for me.

Mood Tracker:
13

RFotD:
The earliest recorded case of a man giving up smoking was on April 5, 1679, when Johan Katsu, Sheriff of Turku, Finland, wrote in his diary "I quit smoking tobacco." He died one month later.

Aimless Ramblings:
I cant stop thinking about his hands.

I’ll be sitting beside him in a conference room at the office, and find myself starting at his hands moving across the page as he takes notes. Or even just resting on the table.

I don’t even know whether or not I want to be with him, but there’s just something about his hands.

Looking at them, I think about the evening at Hy’s, when he came back from the bar and sat down beside me and gave me a hand massage before cupping my cheek in his hand and leaning into our first kiss.
I think about the afternoon in the parkette, when we climbed up to the top of the architectural structure and made out, his hands all over me.
I think about the various times I’d sit perched on his desk, with one foot in his lap as he read, with his hands stroking my calf.
I think about the way he would run his hands up my leg, and under my skirt, and how dangerous we felt in the stairwells.
I think about the evening at the office, on our way back from Pravda, and the fantasies about the conference room.
I think about the night in the park.. his hands in me… me licking his fingers clean.
I think about the evening on the bus, when I absentmindedly stroked the back of his hand and he commented on how soothing he found it. That’s what I think about the most. Stroking his hand..

I'm still oddly jealous when he turns on the charm around other girls. I cant really explain it. I dont know that I want to.

Mood Tracker:
24

RFotD:
Isaac Asimov is the only author to have a book in every Dewey-decimal category.

Weight:
106.2 lbs - how?!

Consumption:
Nothing since about 9pm last night, as of 4:45pm. But I'm being dragged out to dinner with the fam tonight, so I'll have to eat something then, probably.

Aimless Ramblings:
What the hell is wrong with me?

Who is this clingy, crazy person, and why am I turning into her? I don’t like the person I am becoming. I don’t like her at all.

When my Ex dumped me, I was heartbroken. I felt as though I had driven him away by being too high maintenance; too much drama. As contrived as this may sound, I felt as though I didn’t deserve love.

It didn’t help that so many other things in my life were falling apart at the time: socially, personally, academically, professionally, nothing seemed to be going right for me.

I had a very rough few months, but eventually things started working out; things began to fall into place. And then I met Mr Emotional Baggage, and it was as though all the shit that I’d been going through was finally giving way, and that my life might actually finally be getting on track. I might finally be happy.

I should have known better. I guess it’s unfair to blame Baggage for the fact that I’m unhappy. It’s not his fault.

It IS his fault, however, that we aren't together. It's his fault for being charming and yet distant, and leaving me hanging and doubting everything. It's his fault that I’m turning into this psychotic woman that sends drunken text messages whining about how much I hate him for not letting me hate him. It's true, but what happened to my sense of pride? Where is my sense of dignity? The old me would never let a boy get to her like this. The old me was a frigid bitch. When did she disappear? How did she end up being replaced by this overly emotional, needy, whining, clinging basket case? I don’t blame Baggage for not wanting to get involved with me. I wouldn’t want to be involved with me, either. In fact, if I could get away from myself, I would.

Mood Tracker:
17

What Accent Do YOU Have?

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Midland "You have a Midland accent" is just another way of saying "you don't have an accent." You probably are from the Midland (Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, southern Illinois, and Missouri) but then for all we know you could be from Florida or Charleston or one of those big southern cities like Atlanta or Dallas. You have a good voice for TV and radio.
Philadelphia
Boston
The Northeast
The West
The Inland North
The South
North Central
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

RFotD:
The roar that we hear when we place a seashell next to our ear is not the ocean, but rather the sound of blood surging through the veins in the ear. Any cup-shaped object placed over the ear produces the same effect.

Weight:
104.8 lbs

Consumption:
12 kappa maki rolls
one slice of a small thin crust veggie pizza

Aimless Ramblings:
I did something today that I didn’t expect to be able to do for a very long time. And, to my astonishment, it didn’t make me angry, or upset, or bitter, or negative in any way. It was, surprisingly, extremely reassuring and comforting.

I opened up my “Alex Box” today. I pulled out three items: a ring, a wallet sized picture, and a sweatshirt. I put the ring and sweatshirt on, and curled up in bed with LB, picture in hand, and for the first time in six months, I felt safe.

I was afraid that I would feel horrible about the fact that what I had imagined to be “unconditional” love had ended up having a limit. I was afraid that I would feel even more upset and jaded. I didn’t. I felt cozy. I remembered what it fem lt like to feel protected; to feel loved. And even though I am not feeling that way now, I had that love once. And nothing can take away the memory of that love.

Cheesy? Well, perhaps. But it made me feel marginally better about the shit-hole that has been the past month, and that’s what matters.

Mood Tracker:
21