I hate roommates. I hate having to muffle sex because you can't wake up the roommate and it's 5 am and you can't sleep and so you become enamoured with the blue silhouette of each other at dawn...I miss having a place all to ourselves.

My boyfriend hasn't been angry and I haven't cried since Friday, something I'm grateful for. Well I cried over seeing footage of the bird they rescued who is covered in oil. This whole thing is doing me in and making me despise certain types of people, and on the flip side I feel more grateful that I'm not greedy and don't have to carry guilt of destroying anything. I still don't step on ants or kill spiders if I can help it. And as long as they aren't poisonous...black widows, for example, can die.

And it's still snowing here of all ridiculous things. In May!

I have to write an essay on my goals. The rules apply that it must be significantly personally meaningful. ha!...more sex? :>

No, it has bummed me out to think of it.

I want to lose 15 lbs gained in the stressful events of the past 1.5 years, as I sit here eating toast my boyfriend made me with butter and apricot jam. I want to do things like actually read a non-academic book this summer...and write more stories and actually submit them to publishers. But are those things significantly meaningful to and will improve the quality of my life? So I'm stuck thinking of my essay and my life and the "impossible" goals I achieved 2-5 years ago that I'm currently maintaining, while still getting 100% on everything I submit for school so far, somehow. So I think I'll write of all of this, in some way, and segue it into my longer term goal of going to a better college to get a Creative Writing and Film degree, which I take on reluctantly as film can never be a substitute for theatre, but I'm not sure it's significant, or meaningful. What I do with my writing will be, hmm. My writing is personally significant and meaningful to me. Unless it's for a class, and its finals.

So, I wonder about other people's goals. And I read the Complete Stories of Franz Kafka, bought yesterday, and think of his life and experiences that caused him to write. And I love fellow writers for turning pain and suffering and sensitivity into such amazing things. And how a pen can be the fire that allows the phoenix to rise...

~e