I didn’t wake up til 10 o’clock and then took a four-hour nap. I’m still tired, but now I can’t sleep. Go figure. So, you guessed it, my thoughts are running wild.

I keep thinking how odd it is to feel so very alone in a room full of people. The lyrics of a song keep running through my head:

I’m not alone, I wish I was.
Cause then I’d know, I was down because
I couldn’t find, a friend around
To love me like, they do right now.
They do right now.

In other news, a couple of weeks ago I very nearly hooked up with this hot grad student at a local bar, but at the last minute I changed my mind, told him I couldn’t. For some reason this experience was really unsettling for me. It frightened me, how easy it was, or could have been. Which is strange. It’s only sex, right? At the same time, I think no, it’s not JUST sex. I didn’t do it partially because we were both really drunk and he was almost a complete stranger…but also because somehow I want sex to stay special, important, meaningful. Maybe that’s a stupid attitude to take, but it is what it is. It scared me like I was all of the sudden looking over a cliff and found the drop to the bottom much further and much steeper than I’d thought.

But at the same time I wish I had said yes. The great appeal, the immense psychological comfort that mere physical contact with another human being can provide. Skin safe against skin. Aside from concerns about STDs and so on, why should sex be this hulking, weighty thing? It’s simple, it’s animal. Primal. Look at the fucking bonobos. (Ha. Fucking and fucking.) Is it better their way? This whole emotional bullcrap that accompanies sex is purely biological. The hormones that may make us feel attached and even in love with our sexual partners came about because the odds of survival for the offspring of the union are increased when the parents stay together. Evolution, pure and simple. Perhaps humans have taken it to a ridiculous, fancying themselves in love and whatever, writing goddamned poetry and making art about it. Just a by-product of our larger crania.

See how depressed I am? Maybe it’s better and simpler that way, but part of me still yearns for this ideal, unlikely family: a lifelong, loving marriage, children, two-and-a-half baths, family camping trips, all that jazz. Ha. I think my biological clock is ticking. *Shudder*

The only reason I’m writing this here is because I’m fairly sure no one reads it, and I’m trying to sort this out in my head but it’s just not coming. I don’t know what’s right, and that kind of pisses me off. I’m one of those silly individuals who just loathe indecisiveness, particularly in myself. I like answers, especially logical, black-and-white ones. Maybe that’s why I’m a science nerd and not a humanities major.

I’m still not sleepy. Why can’t “tired” and “sleepy” just be the same thing?

Yesterday, we went to go visit my brother’s apartment in Minneapolis. On the way back home, some loser in a huge SUV cut us off, in response to which my brother commented, “Wow. What a cunt-hole.” So I said “Isn’t that kind of redundant?” My mom, riding in the front seat, evidently found this humorous. My brother and I, however, were not to be deterred. My question necessitated a fairly in-depth discussion about the vernacular usage of the word “vagina” to mean “vulva” and its implications on the redundancy (or not) of the phrase “cunt-hole”. By the time we finished, my mother was in tears from laughing so hard.

Oh, the joys of family bonding!

I had to have a couple of blood draws last week. The first one had to be late at night, and the only station open at that time was in the hospital, pretty close to the ER actually. (Pleasant associations, to be sure.) Right, so my dad came with me. I step back behind the little curtain and the woman gets the needle in my vein and starts filling up Vacutainers. Yay. She’s just about finished when I start getting woozy. Oh god, don’t think about it; think about something else, I tell myself, to no avail. She bandages me up and then asks me if I’m okay. I’m white as a sheet and sweating bullets and the room is going fuzzy around the edges…so before I can reply she yells for help. A couple of other guys in maroon scrubs walk in and one freaks the fuck out. I tell him I’ll be okay in a minute, but he ignores me and PRESSES THE BLUE “CODE” BUTTON on the wall. Fucker. 3 seconds later, 10 additional people dash into the room, including at least one doctor, along with a gurney and a crash cart. All because blood makes me faint. I didn’t even actually faint. So embarrassing. Grrrah. And then I was all yay, I get to do this again in the morning. But, when they took my blood in the morning, I was totally fine. No dizziness or anything. Poop on a stick. I never used to be this squeamish. Is it possible that the Concerta does this to me? Tony felt sorry for me, but he thought it was kind of funny. He kept saying, oh it’s okay, this happens to my son too. Like that makes it better.

*Sigh* Ain’t it great? I have a new doctor, or rather an additional doctor. The blood draws were for more genotyping–serotonin receptors and transporters, which should help us figure out why none of the stupid meds work for me. Also they took blood to look at trough levels of medication in my blood. See if there’s something funky in they way I metabolize the damn drugs. They had to take blood at the lowest levels of medication in the day, i.e. right before I take the next dose. Since I take stuff both when i wake up in the morning and before I go to bed at night, I had to have two separate blood draws. Bleh. Anyway, appointment with that doctor again tomorrow to get the results from this whole mess.

Yep, so that’s my summer. How’s yours?

1. God is a meme. That just blows my tiny little mind a bit. Think about it: God is just a meme. Yeah, Richard Dawkins=EPIC.

2. Also, EPIC boyfriend. See the epicness!

3. WTF?

I woke up this morning and saw this. I repeat: WTF?

Holy shit! I just got back from my last organic chemistry lecture. Yay? I don’t know. Yes and no. Yay and nay BUT, I’m excited about going home. I’ve already started packing and cleaning even though I’m not leaving til next Thursday. Right, so by “packing” I mean throwing random shit in a big Rubbermaid thing in the middle of the floor, and by “cleaning” I mean emptying out the Buddha fountain Zack gave me for Christmas, Windexing the windows, and finishing up my odds and ends of food that should not stay here all summer…

Ooh! Also, I watched the first episode of Dollhouse and watched it last night and it was so good! (Joss Whedon. Fuck yeah!) I’m not even going to try to explain what it’s about because it’s complicated and I’m not sure I even get it and it would probably sound lame if I tried. And also not make sense. The point is it’s awesome.

What was I originally going to say though? Oops.

The days seem both very long and very short at the same time. So many things to do and only a few days in which to do them, but next week (when I get to go home) also feels very far away. I want to go home, I want to hang out with my mom, I want to see Garrett. I crave Garrett.

Well, this was a waste of a post.

How come the titles of all my posts show up in lowercase? I assure you, they definitely have the appropriate capitalizations and shit. Poop on a stick.

Anyway, so yesterday I slept in really late and I felt really crappy and I forgot to take my meds. Today I woke up and felt immeasurably crappier, what with the cold sweats, nightmares, tremors, headaches, etc. It took me a while, but eventually I realized that I felt crappy because I was withdrawing from my meds. I took my meds, ate food, and felt better. I hate everything. Stupid addicted body, broken brain chemistry, broken everything. It’s depressing how very addicted I am to my very legal, prescribed, necessary medications, but all the same. It blows. I feel crappy when I don’t take them, I feel crappy when I do take them. Not doing that well lately. Of course my mother tells me “well just imagine how bad it would be if you weren’t taking them.” Is that supposed to help? Regardless, I’m not quite convinced. Also it’s cold and rainy out, which definitely doesn’t help with the moods. (This would also appear to be my fault: I told Jake to take the plastic off of his windows (it was 85 degrees that day!) and he did it, so now it’s cold again. Therefore, my fault. Thanks, guys.)

Lately I either feel like I’m freaking the fuck out and I have to get all these things done, can’t stop my brain from moving 100 mph, and really incredibly anxious, or I’m stuck in ProtoSlo. I can’t move. I don’t care about anything. I hurt inside and my body hurts from not moving, but I still can’t get going . . . and I hate myself for it.

I don’t know what to say.

I went home last weekend and I found this in a really old notebook filled with ramblings and doodlings from long lonely nights of insomnia, back in the day. It’s very incredibly terrible. I was very sad.

Violated by memories, mere memories,
though vivid enough to
make my palms sweat
make me cringe
make me cry.

Confused scared
I do not
(cannot?)
understand why.

They hide in my neurons,
omnipresent,
lurking just underneath the surface,
waiting for an unguarded moment.

Dreams and memories become one,
mixing like so many drops of ink in a pool of water,
so that even as I sleep
I may relive them.
Again.
Again.
Shackled to them,
I wake with tears on my cheeks.