workworkworkit'scoldworkwork

Oh. Hey guys.

So work's been busy. A fury and a frenzy and a mania of vaginas. You'd think that'd be more interesting, but alas, it's just work. Workworkwork. Plus! I'm a woman, so I'm not really getting paid for my work.

Better get it out of the way: Vagina Monologues (6th Annual on this campus), Saturday, Feb 17, 2007, Jesse Auditorium, tickets available at the MSA/GPC Box Office or at the door on a sliding scale: $5 - $15. Proceeds benefit local organizations serving survivors of violence.

Now let's get this out of the way: I hate the Vagina Monologues. I hate Bob. I hate Andy Levkov and the older neighbor lady and being there in the room and watching it drip into the toilet...like paint.

I love the women. I love the mission. I love my co-advisers--oh my god I'd be lost without them. I love the night of the show. I hate the weekly three hour rehearsals. I hate the education of women who haven't had any yet (none of this kind anyway, thanks Absitence-Only-Government). I hate the weekly hour and a half meetings that don't start until 8 so we don't interrupt chapter. I hate students dropping the ball. I hate this list of complaints.

Eh. Sorry. That was boring.

One of my dearest and closest friends keeps talking about how she can't shut up. I can't talk. Yesterday I said to _______ (don't make me come up with a clever descriptor for her, I don't want to boil my friends and relationships down to one word), "I feel like I'm not even here."

"You're not." She said. Not without (perhaps projected and/or imagined) anger.

I just...I feel silenced. And I feel silenced by no one other than myself. And perhaps Winter.

Y'know how you're unhappy when someone's mean to you? Well, no wonder we're all so unhappy right now, Winter is being downright, motherfuckin' mean.

It's so hard right now. Everyone is so unhappy. I've decided to give myself about 18 existential crises, so I'm trying to decide when to move, where to move, whom to move with (if anyone), what to do when I get there, what to go back to school for, how to fill out my job questionnaire--see above, the not-getting-paid-for-my-labor section--when to go back to school, my thoughts on the abstract idea of Love, reconciling my relationship with my dad (his bday's on Saturday), and all sorts of other joy-causing subjects.

Oh yeah, I even emailed Stefania. Why not, right?

I got wasted on Sunday. Yay! Superbowl! Yay!

Except that it meant I turned into the drunk version of myself, and no wonder I haven't brought her out in a while. Oh, the drunken texting that I so enjoy. Why? Why does the filter disappear once alcohol's gone through it? Wait, no, the filter disappears once A LOT of alcohol's gone through it. And, I did at least manage to delete the final text, but in it's stead I sent one that said, "there was a text, but i deleted it. we'll talk tomorrow."

"We'll talk tomorrow"?! Really?! Who am I? Who do I think I am?

Anyway, yesterday I decided the way to resolve the slight discomfort I'm feeling around one of my friends is to just not be her friend anymore. I got all caught up on the idea that the only reason we were such good friends in the first place was because we didn't need each other. I started to not need her, but at least want her around, and that's what I'm gonna blame for (this is an exaggeration) ruining it. It's not ruined, but I felt uncomfortable in a day full of discomfort and now I think I have to act cool so I don't feel stupid around her. That's stupid.

How much of my weather theory is worthwhile, and how much is an excuse?

My master To Do list has at least four items under the Vagina Monologues heading, so I guess I'll get back to that workworkworkworkwork. And I'm cold.

PS I just did spell check, and we're not going to have another post about it or anything, but apparently, to google and blogger, there can be only one vagina. The word "vaginas" does not exist. A vagina can have possession of something "vagina's", or 'is' something--I'd say beautiful, but I'm guessing that's not the first adjective coming to this-dictionary's-author--but there in no way can be more than one. What if they took over? No, better to have a world where women and men alike are frightened of the word currently filling up my inbox and work papers; a world where it's so horrifying, spellcheck doesn't even recognize more than one of them.