So. As if it wasn't bad enough that I'm on my period, I've been sick with a fever, the flu and strep throat for something, like, a week, and occasionally, my blissful time of huddling under my quilt with piles upon piles of used tissues and a completely soiled towel decorating my frame is interrupted with cramps or weird stomach upsets that probably should be considered a signal for me to eat something more substantial than porridge and packets of soup. That's just not bad enough. Just as I was starting to feel better (well, I started feeling better yesterday, but my chest totally cleared up today and the only thing still bothering me is my stuffed nose), I take a shower and the $75 bar of soap that doubles as face wash just managed to find its way into my eye. My right eye. The one I use to see.
I wanted to start off this thing with something dramatic, just to show you that yes, I'm still an over-exaggerating, mythomaniac with a pension for the grandiose. Ta-da! I'm alive. I'm kicking. And I'm talking like normal again, which, thank God. I owe it mostly to the fact that I'm rereading Meg Cabot's The Princess Diaries, and I got this urge to a) look back at all my old posts on Psychotic Justice (now and henceforth renamed Redrumming - which is boring, I know, and I'll probably change it to something 'jazzier' soon - because I went through this thing a couple of months back where I wanted to synchronize all my accounts on all social networking and weblogging websites. It was a short-lived thing. Also I'm not so comfortable using the word 'psychotic' anymore. It's okay in conversation, I guess, but I sort of want to spread an image of myself as a reputable blogger instead of sounding like a 12 year old with a blog, which was exactly what Psychotic Justice was) and, uh, attempt to reread them all before the start of college in January (good luck with that, my friend. It's not so bad I guess. I finished the first three books of The Princess Diaries in what I think is under 24 hours. But I can do exactly nothing right now, except for sort of blindly writing this post, on account of one of my eyes being unfit for use and all). Also, b) start blogging again. To which I'm sure the reaction of this totally insentient blog is, yeah right.
Because it's not like I haven't tried. I tried last year, right after the whole (totally dramatic, and in hindsight perhaps even totally unnecessary) 'I want to drop out of school and sign myself up to a mental ward' thing. It lasted for like a month, almost? Which was a valiant effort, in my opinion. I tried starting things back up again this August, and it was... much less of a noticeable effort because I did quit after three posts (but to be fair, not only did Cory Monteith just died, so did my grandma. So it's not like I did not have an excuse there). Writing on Tumblr, having no audience and all, was sort of embarrassing and I was not able to kick the habit of utilizing Twitter lingo (you know, the unnecessary abbreviations and acronyms - and all the weird punctuation and spelling habits). Also, I tried WordPress. No dice. Absolutely negative a thousand dice. I sounded robotic and like someone I really wouldn't want to be friends with. Like, I know I'm trying to sound more accessible to the general public and not like I'm just talking to either myself or a group of my really close friends, but I think that the latter - the way I used to type and write on this here old blog - made, me, like, likable. Or something. Definitely accessible. Maybe crazy as well, but that's definitely something I can live with.
So look at all this, huh? I wrote all this. And will it last? Will I continue to write, diligently, with discipline and consistency, with the passion of a reignited flame? Eh. Maybe this will be another embarrassing addition to my many, many attempts at reviving the old journalistic thirst. 'Journalistic' in this sense meaning a person (i.e. me) who jots down their thoughts and daily goings-on on a regular basis, and not like the type of journalism that you get degrees and bylines in the newspaper for. 'Will this last' is like a big elephant-in-the-room kind of question that I don't really want to dwell too much on, for fear of jinxing it before 'it' really has the chance to become anything at all. But you know what? Rereading a book that was probably written with 12 year olds in mind really helped me regain a sense of myself. Namely, that I have no clue what I'm doing.
I tried to write, all this time, on Tumblr, on other blogs, on Twitter even, like I had a clear direction in mind. Like I had ambition. Slytherin pride and all that (isn't that just funny? Last time I was writing daily for a blog, I was 100% and then some committed to my house, Ravenclaw). Like, here is this seventeen year old girl, but she's not like you or anyone else for that matter, because she knows what's what and she's not afraid to tell you what. So take that. Yeah. It might come as a shocker, but probably not considering I am a few rungs short of being a compulsive liar, that I do not, as a matter of fact, know what's what. I don't know anything.
And the worse part? Can't tell anyone. Because people my age? The ones transitioning between the cushy, entirely-codependent-on-parents lifestyle and baby's first college class? They have got bigger things to worry about than listening to me talk about how I have no clue what's going on. The chances are sky high, absolutely through the roof that anyone I may direct even a single of my worries or thoughts to would also have no clue what's going on either. So that's the worse part. But the rest of it is pretty shitty too.
For instance, I am stuck between what I know I don't know and what I know I should know. Like, okay, I like all these GWS stuff, like feminism and anti-capitalism and 'destroying the patriarchy'. It's pretty cool that I know not to judge people based on their looks or their sexual experience, and all the other odd tidbits I've managed to pick up over this year. And it's also not really cool but maybe slowly and gradually getting there that I can listen to someone's political views and know that something's off about it. But the thing is, I just don't know how to get to the point where I can be sure of myself. About everything. And be able to voice out my opinions with empirical facts to back me up. And also be able to write, and not write like I'm talking to some invisible friend in the corner of the Internet somewhere but write like I'm writing an academic paper, which I'm pretty sure is what I'm supposed to be doing in a year's time and if that's not pressure, then I don't know what is.
People look up to me and say that I'm smart and that I 'write well', and that's great for people, really, but I don't have time to listen to praises when I know I have a ton to catch up on. I guess it does make me feel a little bit better knowing that someone on the Internet who I highly look up to was once a 17 year old who wrote incriminating homophobic comments on YouTube. Like, okay, wipes sweat off brows, at least I'm not homophobic. You know. Considering I really do plan on getting some homo action. But it's all well and good that I'm not outwardly and overtly racist, sexist, and etc. and I am definitely not homophobic, and it's also well and good that most people recognize that, but I just want to, like, understand and retain all the stuff I read and be able to regurgitate the information in a useful fashion. I'm sure I'll get there. For example, it took me something like 5 years before I was able to write passably, and another 3 before I actually liked the material that I produced. I don't have 8 years, though. So we're going to have to speed up the process a little bit.
I want to know all. I want to be able to joke around using esoteric references that the common pleb won't be able to understand. And luckily for me, that is not end game. Not even close. I don't know what end game is. I suppose I want to sit at a table of revolutionaries one day and be able to have a conversation with them in which I know more than the bare minimum that I know today (that basically amounts to, like, capitalism is bad and some form of communism is good, probably). 'Make a difference'. What a tired phrase. But if I could do that, it would be nice. Maybe if I do reach the point in which I'm able to assertively and confidently argue against the big guns, then I won't feel so on the fence about children, because obviously if I somehow achieve genius, I've got to do everything within my power to pass it on. You only live for so long.
So this is me. This is a terrible welcome back post. As it should be. Nobody is going to read this because nobody should know that I know jack shit. Confidence is very in right now and I am all for pushing it down everyone's throats. So everyone really does not need to know that I am faking almost all of it.