Lost.

I don't even know what I'm doing here anymore.

I start a place to write, and then I lose my words. I can't think or write and I feel almost this mental constipation because I can feel the words inside of my head begging to be released, but my stupid fingers can't put them in the right order.

Albus was miffed this morning for some reason and he wouldn't tell me why. I hate that because then I go through the entire day wondering if it's something I've done wrong.

I made bread yesterday that was intended to be my breakfast for the next week. It's already gone. I feel like I just swallowed a brick, but it was a tasty one.

I feel like having a relationship is the most damn complicated thing in my life. I love Albus, but I feel so trapped sometimes. I want to do a study abroad sometime, but I feel like he will hold a grudge against me for leaving him behind.

I don't want to leave him, ever, but I don't want him to be my whole life, either. I want to do other things, hang out with other friends, but sometimes he gets hurt, and it's so much trouble nowadays to try and make arrangements with people when all I want to do at the end of the day is read and sleep.

Anticipation.

I've been fluctuating between intense excitement and intense fear for the past week.

This election is going to be so incredibly big, and even though there has been so much bullshit going on, what with anonymous people trying to convince voters that they should vote on a different day, or that they could be arrested if they showed up to the polls, or a million other underhanded strategies to keep people away...

There is already a record turnout, especially among the college-student crowd.

The vast majority of these scams have been directed toward Obama supporters. And do you know what I think?

I think it's because the Republicans are fucking terrified, because they know Obama's actually got a chance, and that he's stirred up all of this passion for politics among people who wouldn't previously have even cared.

That, if nothing else, is what excites me.

There is hope.

Headache.

Politics make my head hurt. People spout ignorant bullshit unchecked, and there is nothing I can do.

I will not say I hate conservatives; I have many friends who are conservatives. However, I do hate their politics and their tactics. By their definition, I am a terrorist.

I want to close my eyes and ears and spin screaming around in a circle because that is all I can do, and I just want to make noise. I just want to be heard.

Spiral.

I want to write about beautiful things, but what do I do when there is nothing beautiful to write about?

At the end of each day I feel exhausted and defeated. Albus is the only thing keeping my life on an even keel right now.

One of my professors is insane. She jumps to conclusions, changes due dates, belittles me in front of the class when I try to ask a question or defend myself. By the end of class today I had a wad of my own hair in my hand that was nearly the width of a pencil. I twirled it around my fingers for the rest of the day, enjoying the texture of it.

Pain has become a good friend of mine. Nothing big, nothing self-destructive, but small, delicious agonies - burning my tongue on a stolen fry, near-scalding showers, chewing on my fingers a little too hard, gnawing the insides of my cheeks raw. The pain keeps me a little more focused, a little more in control, or else I would certainly spiral. I never draw blood.

Evaluation.

I call my friends judgmental, attention whores, obnoxious, tardy. I also call them fun and crazy and a riot to be around and I wouldn't trade them for the world. I wonder which of these they will remember for longer?

Albus brings me my favorite yogurt and some oatmeal muffins, and some cranberry juice to ease the pain in my bladder. Without a doubt, he is perfect.

My brain has given up on absorbing any more information about isms or modern theatre, and expects me to wing it when asked to write essays. I think I will have to go with that strategy because I have no idea what else to do. My afternoon of study time was wasted yesterday when I waited for three hours in a doctor's waiting room only to be told that my allergies and my bladder confuse the doctors. They will have to experiment, do tests. I am abnormal in every way.

The apocalypse is nigh.

Zombies walk the streets, and but for a splash of green here and there, no one knows who or where they are. We are told to trust no one. It is quite difficult to stay casual on the street when anyone I meet could be out for my flesh, and the slightest odd behavior might immediately alert the hunting dead to my status as a food source. Even my practice of keeping my hand on the trigger of the Nerf six-shooter in my purse might arouse suspicion.

I have taken to surreptitiously eyeballing trees to figure out which ones I could climb easily in case of an attack. If I can make it out of the library without attracting the attention of the zombie girl sitting a dozen yards away, I will consider myself lucky.

This is the time of suspicion. Tomorrow, all hell breaks loose.

Fear.

Albus threatens onstage, yells obscenities, writes disgusting letters, invades the private life of a girl I do not know, ransacks her house.

It is quite frightening.

I won't say that I can't tell the difference between Albus and his character. I know that the scary man onstage is Tony, not Albus, and I still trust Albus completely despite the fact that he is so very good at being frightening.

But I see a lot of Albus himself in this man. They are good things - chivalry, a worshipful attitude, the pursuit of the perfect romance - but at the same time it makes a small part of me wonder.

This is not affecting my relationship, only my mood. I've been thinking about this play all morning, and I can't even explain fully why it disturbed me so much.

Opposite day.

I feel like my life has been governed by opposites lately. I burned my arm on a fry basket after spending half an hour freezing in the walk-in fridge. I took a picture of a dead sparrow, but later that day, I saved a bee from drowning in a discarded cup of Sprite.

Last week it still felt like summer. Now it is 60 and breezy and overcast and I love it.

I hate being unproductive. I have so many things that I need and want to work on but have absolutely no motivation to do anything besides spend far too much time on the Internet.

Albus has a show opening tonight. This weekend I will revel in the joys of apple chips and a warm jacket.

Plea.

Dearest Albus,

If you would let me comfort you now and then, instead of completely succumbing to the angst of your theatrical lifestyle...

I think both of our lives would be a whole lot easier.

Dreams.

I dreamed last night that Chunk came to my house, pleading and hurt that he was no longer my Facebook friend. His girlfriend had dumped him, but he couldn't understand what he had done to me to make me so angry.

In the dream, I gave him an earful, then punched him in the face. It was quite therapeutic.

Pilgrimage.

I leave campus today for some kitten therapy and a purple sundae. Dressed in pinstriped pants, a baggy Bowie t-shirt, and a rust-colored soldier cap, I feel too dressed up for where I am going, but the kittens seem to like the cap.

I gather ingredients for cupcake concoction, yogurt, and two packs of gum. I unwrap two sticks, wedge them vertically between my jaws, and pretend I am Nosferatu. This is my ritual.

What?

There is a handicapped man who frequents my place of work who is whispered about. I am told multiple times by my coworker that he is a child molester, although I have no idea how she knows this, and apparently this means he is not allowed to be treated as a human being. She never acknowledges him when he says hello or asks for help, and I get a dirty look every time I respond to a greeting of his, however briefly. But if I don't do it, who will?

My only class today met outside, an irregular ring of theatre students clustered around the professor as if we were all in kindergarten again. It was quite refreshing.

Conundrum.

I love musicals, but I hate the musical theatre students. 95% of them are pretentious assholes and the few that are nice are not noticed because they don't make a spectacle of themselves.

I am not one of them, and I am glad of that. Some might say this is just sour grapes, since I did audition to be a musical theatre student when I came here, but the truth is, I wanted to be one then because I did not know what they really are.

I sing on the sidewalk because I like the song I'm listening to. They spout off random strings of soprano notes in the hallway just to prove how high their ranges are.

I don't tell them that I can probably sing higher than they can.

--

Till-death-do-us-part analysis of an Irish play in a class where none of us are Irish. Incomprehensible test offset by squashy German candy. I picked up a leafhopper and it launched itself off of my finger with a force that felt like a tiny fist had punched me.

I feel strange and girly in double pigtails and a camisole. Heat becomes unbearable. Would it be too much to ask for a little bit of fall for the equinox?

This was the weekend.

Goodwill and the record store. Shopping is a disease. 4 CDs for $20 and 6 items of clothing for $14 is still too much when you are a student. The man at the record store is doing with his life exactly what I want to do, but I am no good with money and frequently feel as though I have no future because of that, or that I will end up drowning in some boring day job and never do anything I love to do again.

I love music and books and writing and art, but combine all that together and you still get STARVING BOHEMIAN. If it weren't for the starving part I would jump on that opportunity.

Being a bibliophile alone will not make you a librarian. Loving to educate people will not make you a good teacher. Writing fanfiction does not make you an author.

I write all of these songs in my head and I am so proud of the lyrics, but I can't think of any music to go with them and so I feel like a failure.

I drown in music. 8,220 songs and I doubt I've heard even 2/3 of them.

Cast of characters, thus far...

Albus - First and only love. Bona fide dork. Has the facial hair style of a 40-year-old professor. Plays stalkers in underground plays. Gives the best hugs. Calls me beautiful even when I know he's lying sometimes. Frequently thinks he is a squirrel. I am waiting for the day when he will put a ring on my finger.

Scarypretty - Best friend, or one of them. Nineteen. Getting married someday. Lives far away. Has frequent bouts of paranoia that are not entirely irrational. Expresses affection with sarcasm and acts of grievous bodily harm. Enjoys grabbing her friends in inappropriate places.

Glitter - Another best friend. Nineteen. Strange imagination. Enjoys doodling masterpieces and posing for odd pictures. Frequently spouts inside jokes in front of outsiders. Does not know many of my deepest secrets. Tells true ghost stories.

Duck - Sister. Seventeen. Socialite. Very into pink. Watches home movies with unheard-of enthusiasm. Cuts out words from magazines. Enjoys the Disney channel entirely too much. Wants a kitten.

Regina - Oldest friend. Seventeen. Often mean to boys. Sticks black-and-white photos onto her desk. Obsessed with Tim Burton films. Home being constantly remodeled. Has many long-distance friends. Prone to kicking round things around fields.

Chunk - Ex-friend. Twenty. Started ignoring the world when he discovered online dating. Passive-aggressive. Used to be in love with me, then proceeded to hurt me with his silence. I hate him, but can't get him out of my head.

Pigeon - Friend of eternal optimism. Nineteen. Spreads smiles and music to those she meets. Sometimes slow on the uptake. Frequently late. Will listen as long as you need her to. Frequents cafes and coffee houses.