So, I've decided not to be crazy anymore. Really. If there's anything in the world that I absolutely cannot do it's being a crazyass. As a means to counteract this, I've made a few resolutions, most of which I'm counting on keeping. Change is now, friends.

1.) I will not drink gallons and gallons of Diet Coke (or other caffeinated beverages), especially not after 6-7 o'clock. I have discovered the virtues of fizzy water.

2.) I will not pull all-nighters regularly. Leave that shit to finals week.

3.) I will work out nearly every day, since I go crazy when I don't. I will try to get up at nine (or so) to do this.

4.) I will write for Counterpoint.

5.) I will pursue my Wellesley-related research project steadily.

6.) I will record my thoughts at least two to three times per week on this voice recorder thingy, and later transcribe them.

7.) I will try to relax when I read as to further facilitate my actually getting something done.

8.) I will not procrastinate in the writing sense (meaning, I will write sentence outlines well in advance).

9.) I will not hate myself.

10.) I will accept that doing nothing, or hanging out, or drinking, is okay.

11.) I will consider NetFlix.

12.) I will work in the library, and actually do that work I am working on.

13.) I WILL NOT hate myself.

14.) I will use my bike to go off campus fairly regularly.

15.) I will wear real clothes, and make an effort to consistently look awesome.

16.) I will love my major.

I think I can really do this, homies. Wish me luck.

Just finished "Dracula" and I've got to say, as entertaining as it was and is, I am mostly excited about the fact that I can actually read a book. Now, you may not understand what I mean by this, Non-Existent Reader, but after being quite nearly clinically insane last semester and unable to do any sort of work without calling upon the Furies and/or the demons of my self-loathing subconscious, I can read! And quickly! And like it! Books!

That aside, I still haven't made true progress with the Italy chronicle. I also realized that I can't spell very well since I tend to post late at night when I'm not very functional. No matter; there is no set grammar on the internet apparently. I mean, "chronical," what the fuck?

Anyway. The real reason why I haven't done much with the Italy CHRON-I-CLE is because I'm more of a talker than a recorder. Even when I was working on the Ruhlman all of my best stuff came from conversationally inspired epiphanies... well, epiphanettes if you will. Same thing with my other papers. Moral of the story? I know that this is going to sound super obnoxious, but after reading Dracula, I really felt myself yearning for Dr. Seward's phonograph dictation machine. I mean, a machine that types for you when you talk? That rocks. And yes, yes, I know that there are computer programs that probably (or do) do the same damned thing, but since I'm not particularly high tech (Oh, in other news, my iPod is officially dead and irreplaceable. Fantastic.), I'm going to be using a voice recorder at least twice a week (perhaps discussed elsewhere). At any rate, that's the origin of my latest interest in dictation.

Peace out, and forgive me my previous, unhinged LJ posts.

So I've returned from Italy. I am virtually promising to post my observations, feelings, etc. on this blog once I've composed them in Word. Be prepared, my nonexistent readers!

I woke up at 10:30 after going to bed at midnight, probably falling asleep at 12:30. Why must I sleep so much when I have to finish the death paper? I'm supposed to die AFTER I turn it in, not go into a comatose state now!!!

Damn it all.

Last night (at around 11 p.m.) I decided to begin typing notes. And I actually did some work (SHOCKING!). I can still hardly believe it, but of course this means that I have to work in earnest this evening, meaning that starting at the time I did last night will not really fly.

In other news, Happy Father's Day to all; in a less than holiday appropriate move, I suggested that we watch "Crash." Once again, I did not deem a pseudo-mainstream critically hailed film Oscar worthy, which I suppose ironically renders these films Oscar-worthy. At least it was better than the godawful boring "Brokeback Mountain" (and no, I am not unenlightened. It was poorly paced and if the main characters weren't homosexual and physically attractive, I sincerely doubt that it would hold the appeal that it did for most people).

Continuing the moviefest thread, I watched two movies yesterday: "The Caine Mutiny" (my kind of film: classic and brimming with manly men, including Mr. Best Voice in the World, Jose Ferrer) and "Brazil." Talk about a trip. While watching "Brazil," I was simultaneously transfixed by the brilliant images and thinking, "What the fuck kind of a movie is this anyway?" Long story short, I'm pretty sure that Terry Gilliam is a genius. If only they'd listened to J.K. Rowling and permitted Gilliam to direct the Harry Potter movies: think of the potential awesomeness there!

Aaaand I'm a dork. Moving on then.

Finished "Myra Breckinridge" yesterday. It's really a phenomenally outrageous book, even though it was written in 1968. It concerns a marvelously funny sociopath and social terrorist in L.A., and her insights into youth culture and the media are just wonderful. Of course, when I first read it (I think I've already discussed this), I didn't know what to think of the graphic sex/rape. It still made me uncomfortable to read it, but that's the whole point. It saddens me to think that no one of my own age group has really heard of Gore Vidal. If not for the film "Capote", I wonder if anyone would be familiar with Truman and/or "In Cold Blood"! Tragic. I should have been born 30 years earlier.

Can the days get more dull? On top of doing essentially nothing (the night is young, however, and I am determined to keep my word by typing some fucking notes), I got a headache this afternoon and passed out on the futon. Oh, yeah, I have a futon now after successfully making my parents feel guilty about making me sleep on the couch (in true college movie cliche form, they sold my bed, piano and keyboard as soon as I left the house two years ago).

I did, however, download more excellent music (old school country no less! Amy will be horrified I'm sure) and watch yet another movie ("The Uninvited" (1944)). As a result, I feel an inappropriate fixation on Ray Milland coming on. There's something Kevin Spacey-ish about him, which of course spells danger for me :-D

Got to go to the grocery store. It's the first time I've been out of the house today. I'm beginning to feel like one of those giant dogs 20somethings insist upon keeping in their tiny city apartments.

Just finished watching the movie "Spellbound." Not Hitchcock's best by any means, but it did have an amusing dream sequence staged by Salvador Dali, everyone's favorite Spanish lunatic. On the topic of dreams and sleep though, I haven't been able to remember my dreams lately, which I suppose is a good thing. I know that I've been having them--I have a vague recollection of a recent nightmare in which I was fighting off a person I know who was... well, inappropriately pursuing me--but nothing as vivid as the anxiety dreams I had had before grades were out... dreams about me not being able to find someone (who shall remain nameless) or being invisible, essentially. Highly transparent, I know, but still upsetting for me.

Part of me wished I had a nightmare though. Or something. I'm feeling very dull lately, if you can't tell, probably instigated by my basic physical immobilization and that ball-and-chain of a research paper on top of my usual Atlas impersonation. This feeling of worthlessness really has to stop. That's it: I resolve to type notes tomorrow and how. It must be done, so it will be done, and I will stop hating myself and be happy about going to Italy instead of apathetic.

What a nutcase.

Another relatively uneventful day, and I must admit that it's getting a bit tiring. My achilles tendon is improving, but that's mainly because I haven't been pressing it (i.e. walking much, cycling or leaping down flights of stairs). I've mostly been reading things I shouldn't, like "Best of Craigslist" and Gore Vidal (a beneficial delight), watching classic movies and downloading music to avoid using my injury productively (i.e. by working on that godforsaken paper). Sound like Paradise to you? Well, I would have agreed about a month ago, but I really do find that I need a solid dose of fresh air and sunshine to be happy. In short, I need to ride my bike and cannot. After all, as my sometimes-irritatingly practical and cautious mother reminded me this evening: "You're an idiot," she hissed. "I wouldn't-- well-- I wouldn't care as much if you weren't going to Italy so soon. What do you want to do? Do you want to fuck yourself up? You IDIOT."

Dad is on the pro-cycling side (as would be expected). I'm more leaning toward not pushing my (already bad) luck and staying off the old left foot, even if that means essentially starving myself to keep at a decent weight. It's such a damned shame that I can't ride; I was really building some solid strength and beginning to look and feel a bit like my old self. I suppose that my feet are more important in the long term than my vanity, but I'm realizing that it's true: I'm quite vain, if not a little bit nuts in regard to appearance, which is something I imagine most people wouldn't expect once they get a load of the package. I don't think that most people would ever consider me trendy, let alone fashionable, but like most young women (I suppose) I do that thing where I'm entirely distracted if a mirror is in the room. It's as if I'm addicted to self-loathing. Another one of my charming inner qualities: discovered and pasted on the Intarweb!

In other news, I have a week left for the paper. Everything is read, so now I've got to start typing notes and quotes to get my head in the game. I am still highly resistant to the idea of actually accomplishing anything, much to my rational side's chagrin. And I still have no idea what is wrong with me. Dad thinks that I'm in "summer mode"; of course, he doesn't know that I've been this way for most of the academic year--pulling out papers in the old tie a string around that stubborn tooth and slam the door but chicken out about 5 times first method. I don't know what kind of academic I'll ever make if I can't bring myself to take the plunge of getting into that necessary and fleeting mental realm. Probably not much of one at all, considering that any kind of graduate school (except for perhaps Law... kill me now) seems out of reach.

I've depressed myself again. That urge to play the Excel game is beckoning. For the uninformed, I enjoy making "four year plans" on Excel charts. I think I have close to 100 made up by now, none of which make me feel much better. And before you ask, yes I am insane. I think I'll keep writing to distract myself from the other and more apparent neurosis.

I've downloaded some excellent music lately, having discovered that I love the young Frank Sinatra's voice. Don't listen to that "Strangers in the Night" bullshit: his recordings with Tommy Dorsey and Harry James from the early 40s are superb. It's evident after hearing these that all of his Rat Pack boozing and whoring and smoking caught up with the Chairman and fucked over his voice. Uncanny how savagely the talented abuse their gifts.

I finished Gore Vidal's "Julian" last night. Absolutely wonderful book, even if one doesn't have a true interest in the Roman Empire, though it is rather fascinating in that respect as well. Intriguing how much the late Roman Empire differs from our generally (artistically encouraged) conceptions of Rome a la' "I, Claudius" or the HBO's latest series of the great city's namesake (terrific show, by the way). I admit that I am excited to be una turista and see the Spanish Steps, Colloseum, Vatican, aquaducts, etc. Anyway, continuing on my Gore Vidal kick, I've decided to reread "Myra Breckinridge," since I'm absolutely positive that I didn't comprehend anything of it the first time I read it (I was fourteen and horrified by the graphic depictions of pseudo-homosexual sex... no, I'm not homophobic: I was fourteen for Christ's sake).

I suppose that that's all for now... I might get inspired later on in the night.

I just realized that my prior post was really ridiculous and now I'm ashamed of myself. What the hell do I have to complain about other than nothing? That's right. Nothing.

Anyway, I've had a lot of ideas kicking around my head today (largely to avoid doing the paper that inspired my last pathetic post). Topics included: how much American popular music (including "indie") sucks, how most people in this (my) generation have absolutely no manners without overtly being "pleasant" to further their own interests, and societal sociopathy.

I am the Procrastination Queen.