One Where I Beg at the End

I hate how my professors each think that their's is the only class I'm taking.

Another thing I hate is that I have interesting stories to tell on this blog, but I can't tell them because I have to protect the guilty.

Today cannot possibly be Sunday. There is no freaking way that I can be going back to class tomorrow. I have an impossibly long to-do list. Not to mention an I-Want list.

I have to read these 3 articles and write a critique on them and about a million other equally boring readings for this one class. Then I should start doing my discussion essay for this other class, even though it's not due for a while. I just don't want it to come and bite me in the ass. Then I should read another act of Pericles, simply because I should stay ahead in that class. Then I have to read these poems for creative writing, so that we can do a workshop over them. Lastly I have to read the General Prologue and the Wife of Bath's tale of the Canterbury Tales. And I need to return something a Radio Shack.

My I-Want list is much better. I want to watch a few discs of my M*A*S*H collection. I want to read the Fountainhead. I want to play some more on my ringtone making software that I just got. I also want that knot in my stomach to go away. But that's not something I can do.

Do you ever just sit there and watch what is happening and see all of the hurt and frustration and futility of action with a situation? I'm sure that's a ridiculous run-on sentence, but I don't care. I don't know how much more of it I can take. I'm only one person. While this is going on, you want to make some drastic action, make a bold statement. But you know it's futile. Maybe you know it's futile because you've already tried and failed, maybe you just know.

I'm about to be more open and honest than I really want to be. But I can't help it. I'm tired. I'm tired of hurting. I'm tired of aching. I'm tired of incessantly giving and getting nothing except cruelty in return. I'm tired of feeling inadequate. I'm tired of feeling subhuman. And above all, I'm tired of caring. I would love nothing more than to break this awful cycle. I know that the change must begin with me. But I don't feel strong enough to do it.

I would love to say that big girls don't cry. But they do. Or else I'm just not a big girl, but a little girl. A scared, lonely, hurt little girl.

I don't know what blogs you read, but I found one that I adore. I can't exactly relate to it, but I love it. It's about this woman who has 7 children. It's called Notes From the Trenches. Hearing her stories cracks me up. I would love to have her life. I know she goes through a lot of shit, but she's able to turn it somehow. Maybe that's just my prerogative as a reader. I don't want to overanalyze it. It's a gift that she shares her life with everyone, so I don't want to ruin it for myself. However, it almost makes me want to steal 7 children so that I'd have something to write. I AM NOT going to steal 7 children, but I would love to have 7 children.

Like I said before, there are so many things I could write about, but I have to protect the guilty. I have this one person, whom I constantly allude to (and if you know me, you know who it is), but I can't say their name or be specific about what they've done. Why? Because if by some chance they read this blog, they'll be super-pissed. And other people who just mildly piss me off throughout the day, well, I don't want to put up anything about them because it's just minor irritation and I don't want to start something huge.

I should tackle my to-do list. But I have something to add to your to-do list. I want input. I want to know what you think. I need to know what you think. Give me something. Anything.