Cacoethes · Scribendi

I'm entirely consumed with my childhood almost all of the time. Jason described my complex as one of the things he loves most about me, but I'm not sure. I'm obsessed with writing to former friends, who are completely different people with different, adult lives now, and asking them if they remember the time we poured talcum powder all over the floor and stomped around in it, or the time we pretended we were blind, leading each other around the neighborhood. I wrote to this girl Anna today, who was my friend through the majority of my formative years. She was bony and had messy black hair. She was adopted and I was endlessly jealous of her for this. She also had a pet rat. I had a damn fish. Anna was one of those kids who was unstable before we knew what instability was, felt like, or looked like. She had a slumber party one year for her birthday, and there were about ten of us squeezed into our various Disney-themed sleeping bags on her bedroom floor. She was sleeping in her bed with a canopy, from which we began hearing little sobs as we were gossiping. In little to no time, the baby sobs turned into a full-fledged temper tantrum. Her father came in and whisked her away; we didn't see her until the next morning. It turns out that she just needed her ritual bedtime story from him.
Jason and I organized a big poker game tonight with all of our favorite people. Except Sam. This girl once told me that making new friends is like buying new clothes, but that seems an understatement. I'm making daiquiris for everyone. I love being a hostess. I want to move to New York and go to Bard.

Maybe just one more thing before I join Jason in the nice warm bed. Sometimes I worry about worrying too much. I mean, not in the way that's like "I shouldn't be worrying this much because it's not healthy." But for different reasons. I worry that if one of my worst fears come true, which how could they not, being that there are so damn many, I feel that I'll be so scared and will have run over the supposed situation to come so many times in my head, that I'll just freeze no matter what, and give up. This is what I did in my choking dream. I knew I was choking and I knew that I was really scared of choking, so I just closed my eyes and allowed it to happen. You know that certain mechanism that allows weak, frail women to kill their attempted raper with their bare hands? Or how that guy my dad always talks about overcame cancer by renting all of those funny movies and just laughing for three straight days? What if I'm so scared that my survival mechanism becomes paralyzed with fear also? Maybe I don't want to survive. Or maybe I want to survive, I've always wanted to survive, I just don't know where to start.

I'm not sure where I should direct the attention of the night-terror I just had. First I thought that it was Jason, but after I woke him up to tell him, I realized that he wasn't the unsuccessful hero of my dream, it was Dan. See, I was in the hospital for something and somehow, I started choking on this plastic bag that was inside of me. I think it had exploded inside of my body and I subsequently couldn't breathe. It was trapped in my airway. Choking is one of my worst fears (on an impressive list of fears). But maybe the point happened before this. It was when I told the doctor that I wouldn't have this thing inserted unless Dan did it. And here's where I get confused as I'm trying to interpret the meaning. Did it mean that I trust Dan more in the first place? Or did it mean that Dan failed at something and made me choke to death? Or both? I had another night-terror a couple of weeks ago, when Jason and I were sleeping at my parents'. It was cinematic. I lived in a crappy apartment with an friend with no face (meaning I didn't know who she was afterwards). There was a man who always walked around, asking people if they wanted him to do their laundry. One day, we caved and said yes. Later we realized that he kills the people whose clothing he launders, and puts their bodies on spin-cycle with their clothing. The point that I screamed was when the man was coming up the stairs for my friend and me and we had just realized our fate. Jason said it was an upsetting scream. And it was - I could hear it in my head before I woke up. What was my point with all of this? And why did I get out of bed?

I should go back to bed.

I started a new short story tonight. It involves dramatic irony and sarcasm, lots of it. Apparently I write pretty naturally this way, so it's working to my advantage. Jason and I drove to Fells Point to go to this coffee place I love, Wydeye. It has free wireless internet and big comfy couches that look like they belong in my grandma's condo. But once we got there, we realized this place was closed and we headed over to the huge B&N in the harbor. It wasn't as quaint or inspiring, but it worked. There was a homeless guy at the table adjacent to ours. He was reading Fantastic Four comics and laughing out loud, also uninhibitedly coughing up phlegm roughly every 43 seconds. But I suppose these people are the beauty of Baltimore. Or something. I still have lots of Edgar to read before tomorrow. I never realized how defensive he was. What a weird guy. Jason made me a screwdriver and it is absolutely delicious. Mostly because it doesn't taste anything like actual alcohol, which is the greatest selling point a drink can have. According to me.

I don't have class until 3:30. Until then I believe I'm going to eat some cereal, possibly Rice Crispies, maybe watch Closer - I bought the DVD weeks ago and still haven't gotten around to watching it, and hopefully write down this story idea I have before it flutters away. Jason's busy looking for jobs today. This somber man approached us last night on the last shoot for the movie Jason's directing and said that he's looking for an editor for some sort of ministry thing. He gave Jason his card and said to call today. It seems promising, but maybe I'm just being optimistic. Classes started last week. And they made me realize something. I'm definitely not going to Towson for graduate school. I don't think I could do it for another two years. The quality of people... Maybe that's all I should say. I'm a little interested in the University of Baltimore. Apparently they have a little creative writing program of 15 people. I'd love that sort of intimate learning environment, especially after being herded around in a school of over 16,000. Of course that's what I wanted after being in high school, when everyone knew everyone, but now I miss that. I miss the sense of recognition when walking around school. I almost feel like every day is my first at Towson; it seems like I see hundreds upon hundreds of faces I've never seen before, despite my three years at the school. I think I'm going to get started on those Rice Krispies now.