December 1. 1999

I'm trying a little something new here. I'm going to put my actual personal journal entries up here. I thought it would be interesting to see the difference in writing styles and subject matter compared to what I write here. Obviously, in my personal journal, there's a lot less explaining and exposition needed, since it's only written for my benefit. Hence, it's more stream of conciousness and less attention is paid to spelling, syntax and sentence structure. I've left the entry exactly as I wrote it, bad grammar and all.

I think the purpose of this little exersise is trying to figure out exactly what I want my writing style to be in this journal. I've been reading a lot of other online journals and really looking at the style in which they're written, and comparing it to mine. Sometimes I feel like I'm explaining too much here, and it seems more like a performance, meant to entertain rather than my own personal catharsis through writing. But, at the same time, I don't want my writing to become so abstract and stream of conciousness that it becomes tedious for others to read. I guess it's the case of striking a happy medium.

So. Without furthur ado, here we go.

Wednesday, December 1st, 1999

I think I'm fucking it up again with the people I love. Last night was spent in my bed, mindlessly scanning an Entertainment Weekly and feeling generally sorry for myself. I marvel at my complete inability to have and keep friends. There must be some kind of mechanism in me that allows me to fucke things up. Last night I put my arm around Sarabeth several times, and she pulled away from me in either annoyance or disgust, I'm not sure which. I spent most of my energies in relationships trying not to get rejected, yet for some reason it just happens again and again. Time and again, I find myself alone in my room, doing whatever, and while not feeling bad about being solitary, I feel I should be making some attempt at a social life. But everytime I do, I just end up being miserable. I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe there's nothing wrong with me. And now I hear Sarabeth in back of me asking everyone, "Are you going to New York on Saturday?" But she never asks me. No one ever asks me. They all make plans to go to NYC, and they didn't even ask me. I don't know...do I ask for this shit?!?! Am I a glutton for punishment or something? My whole life I've always felt left out, and I'm beginning to wonder...is it the horrible people I hang around with, or is it me? I'm really beginning to think the latter. Maybe I'm just an asshole who no one wants to be around. Maybe I have no social graces. This sucks. But for some reason I just suck it up and take it. There isn't any way I can win in this situation. I just end up fucked one way or another.

People are really overrated.

So now I am 19. Yippee. Yesterday I'm sure was a fun affair, but because of my bad mood I don't want to write about it now, because my shitty mood will probably color my recollections. So I will save that for later.

Maybe my problem is that I'm just too needy. I want to be loved and wanted...just like any other person. Maybe I want too much out of people, and that's why I'm constantly disappointed.

Why can't I just be happy? Why do I make it so damn hard for myself?

Here I am, writing in Art History again. I promised myself I wouldn't do this anymore, but due to the severe neglect my journal has been sustaining lately, it doesn't bother me a whole lot.

I had my 2d crit yesterday. She was running late, not surprisingly, so the whole crit was rather (and mercifully)  brief. I laid out all my work, feeling like a clumsy fool as I do usually around her. The pile from the entire semester was very small - looking back on all the blood, sweat and tears I had went through for this class, the work all assembled together looked somewhat insignificant.

I got the grades for my 4 self portraits (A-, B+, A, A) and my photobook (A), so I was very happy, but not really surprised, by that. She loved my photobook in particular, she said it looked very professional (despite the fact that when I got it bound at Kinko's it warped). She said I had worked hard and done well in the class. She asked me waht I thought of the clss, I replied quite honestl that it was the hardest art class I had ever taken. She looked surprised when I said that. She also looked surprised when I told her I wanted to go into Ceramics. Poop to her...I hate when fine artists look down on craftspeople. She said I had a very good sense of design and illustration, and it would serve me wall no matter what I decided to persue. She took nearly all of my work to keep for the freshman exhibition at the beginning of next semester. So I was happy about that.

So...3d, computer and drawing crits next week. Yipee.

music: This is A Recording (demos 1994-97), Kevin Moore
food: a can of tuna and a can of Coke
read: anatomy book
sight: a bottle of sparkling cider I can't open
Song Lyric:
remember when you told me that you'd never let me go?
now was that three years from yesterday or a video?
kept scanning for clues in the colors in a room with a
wonderful view, till i found myself in front of me sitting
next to you.
- Chromakey, Kevin Moore