If you please.

I keep waking up completely unsure of what to do with myself. I lay in bed and wonder what the hell I should be doing. I would hate to look back on graduate school and realize I was in this daze the entire time and without proper inebriation. And, God, I can't write for shit. There is this barrier that doesn't allow me to just write, flow, speak with witty candor that makes the public smile to themselves and kiss their spouse.
That is what I want and I can't seem to reach it.
I discussed with Canadian Maggie possible story ideas since our current stories are depressing the hell out of her and boring the shit out of me. We decided on features. She will follow a chef as she shops at the Berkeley Bowl and I will explore Gilman Street and relate my impressions coming from a west Texas punk teenage-hood.
Nice ideas, I suppose.
And I am just so worried.
I am worried that my dreams of being a radio star will be shattered by my chronic nasal congestion.
That I will never be witty enough.
That I will never be sexy enough.
That I will be a fat housewife in the Midwest and love it.
That I'd rather sleep than do anything else.
That I will never learn to style my hair.
Worries.

stumbling...

I think food neutralizes the brain. I can't think after I've eaten. I'm such a fucking pig.

Self-hate.

Watched Melvin Goes To Dinner last night. A film Alamo premiered. and I when I saw it that time it wasn't very funny. But Josh Duty, the resident asshole said that that was because I didn't have a sense of humor.
So, this time, I watched it ready to laugh. Still, not funny. I must be nightmare bore.
You win Josh.

I wish I could take it all back. It's just getting harder to deal with.

Complainer Says Nothing

Today, after wasting away in bed for a good portion of it, the day I mean, I recalled how creative I used to be when I was drinking and snorting coke all the time.
I was a relentless writer and passionate observer of the beautiful minutiae. Notebooks upon notebooks of writing. Where are they now? In a box in Texas. My life.
But now, I'm boring. Bored. Bland. Sad.
I have no creative outlet. Only my class writing but I have to follow the rules of journalism and can't express myself the way I would. Anyway, I don't have anything to write about.
Berkeley is so artificial. It is impossible to take anything away from it but, "oh, that’s Berkeley." There is no grit or fire or bruises or iridescence.
It is lame. An old hag from the past that can't move on. A retirement community that serves itself and delves into delusions of grandeur on how they work for the greater good.
Wow. I love to complain.

Red Flags and Dental Dreams

I should have known when I read Claire's blog on her escapades in Senegal that the J-school wasn't going to be right for me.
If a 21 year old that prefers to join the Peace Corps. and writes amazing blogs everyday can reject the prestige of UC Berkeley Journalism school, then I should have taken that for a big 'ol red flag that HELLO you are not cut out for this little toni!
They wanted someone like Claire. Instead they got me.
Fucking fat bastard recruiter at the Press-Enterprise - yet again, going against my instincts. My stomach was churning for a reason. My super spidey senses were begging me to run away! Go to class! Don't put yourself through this!
Big 'ol red flag.
and so many people to disappoint.
I probably would have been in Marfa, Tex. not getting any sleep, getting crazier by the sun soaked minute in the desert full of aliens--illegal and extratrestrial. I should have done like Claire.
That was the path for me. but I have a bad sense of direction thanks to my dad, and I always manage to get lost.
I should have been a dental assistant.