So! It's been quite a while, yes? Haven't had much to report. It's summer now, and I'm still home, and still jobless and mostly directionless. I have been seeing doctors and am in therapy, which was the most important part about this taking a semester off thing, anyway. I do sometimes regret it and wish I had stuck around, had that spring semester with Lisa - which I so wanted after she'd been away last fall - and had a last semester with my senior friends, but it was kind of the only choice. I was just too sick to continue. Full stop.

I have been officially readmitted, and hopefully will actually have a place to live in my house in the fall (not quite clear on that yet.) Hopefully I'll be able to graduate with both my majors, but if I have to drop one it's really not the end of the world. Finishing my English major won't be a problem at all, since I took so many of my required classes so early on. It would break my heart to have to drop American Studies as a major, but not as much as it would kill me to be taking two seminars each semester which could be what I would have to do. I don't know. My advisors will work some kind of magic, I bet.

As for why I'm writing so obscenely early in the morning, well, there's really only one reason I would be willingly awake and alert and having free time this early: namely, I never actually got to sleep last night. I'm not sure what happened there. I had some brief in-and-out sleep between about 4 and 5:30, but only for a few minutes at time and never deeply at all. I got up at about 5:30 because I was starving, came downstairs for some heavy bread and apple juice. (To the delight and confusion of Duncan and Mabel, who were quite excited for the company so early in the morning.) Went back upstairs and tried to sleep. Got up again at 7 to take some Advil for my headache, hoping that would help. Realized I was just not falling back asleep, said "fuck it" and took a shower and got up for good. My mom isn't even awake yet. She'll be pretty disoriented when she sees me. When left to my own devices I usually get up around 1.

I understand why I had trouble actually going to sleep - I had a chai latte too late yesterday while at Barnes & Noble, where I spent the bulk of my afternoon, reading foreign Vogues. (An extremely pleasant way to spend one's afternoon, all told.) I really shouldn't have caffeine of any quantity higher than green tea. It makes me jittery, lightheaded, and my heart race, and apparently robs me of sleep.

The Voguefest was delightful, though. I discovered that British Vogue has sections on fashionable deals that are ACTUALLY deals (as opposed to American Vogue, which lists, like, a $250 bathing suit as a total steal.) I also discovered that Lara Stone is fucking ubiquitous lately, as part of the fashion industry's attempt to foster a healthier body image and make a better name for themselves - look, this one size 4 model! We don't put incredibly unreasonable standards of thinness on our models and clients! Never! It's just so self-congratulatory.

I do like Lara, though. I especially love her Versace ads, as she's perfect for them. Bold, sexy and sometimes a little loud and trashy. A rail-thin model just can't really make those kinds of clothes sing. So good for her for coming along at the right moment and getting the opportunity to capitalize on it.




I dig her tooth gap, too. Another part of being unexpectedly just-right - it's unique and instantly recognizable a la Lauren Hutton, but also somehow actually makes her sexier. No mean feat.

Honestly, I'm not even sure what I'm talking about anymore, at this point. I am so bloody exhausted. (But not sleepy at all. Hence the problem.) Wish me luck, you guys.

So the time posted feature is messed up and is not in my actual time zone (and I can't figure out how to fix it. Bit new to blogger), but for posterity's sake, it is, in fact, nearly 2:30 in the morning at the time of writing this. I have been in bed, with the lights off, eyes closed, for about two hours now and I am no closer to sleep than I was when I started.

Part of it is the fact that my knee is really hurting and bothering me (why? Who the fuck knows. Stupid temperamental knee), but most of it is the fact that this is what my body wants to do these days. No matter what time I get up in the morning, for the past couple of weeks I haven't been able to go to sleep before about 3 a.m. This leads to either sleeping through my morning classes or taking long long naps in the afternoon that leave me incredibly groggy and nonproductive.

I don't even know. It's not so much that my insomnia has returned as that my body now apparently thinks I'm better off being nocturnal. My body and I part ways on that particular point, leading to a bitter stalemate of psychological war.

See how awake I am? A person should NOT be this wide awake after lying in a warm comfy bed with soothing white noise with their eyes closed for two hours. Wat. (The illustrious title of my blog, right there. Isn't it just delightfully descriptive?)

So in taking my English Literary Tradition class I learned that I am completely useless when it comes to poetry written before 1900 or so. Even with Keats, even though I totally have it bad for him. (Death-obsessed, prodigiously talented poet who died young of TB = hot in Overly Romantic College Girl World.)  Seriously, fucking useless. I was reading Tennyson's In Memoriam, which has absolutely stunning language AND is about death AND has romantic homoerotic subtext and I STILL wanted to kill myself while reading it and didn't get a damn thing out of it. I don't get it. (Okay, so I guess Poe is an exception. <3 Poe.)

I am not this way about modernist poetry, however. Oh no. It's still way more of a struggle for me than prose, but I really want to figure it out. Check it:

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

It's one of those poems that makes a lot of people who hate poetry want to kill themselves, but I love it. William Carlos Williams is awesome.

That poem was included in some things we read for Modern American Writing, though we didn't talk about that particular poem. I guess Thurston figured it had been done to death. There's another section in there that we read called "Songs of a Girl" that I absolutely fucking loved, but I can't remember the poet's name. I'll definitely write something more about it after I dig around in my room for it, but I don't really want to right now (nor do I want to turn on lights.)

Once again for posterity's sake, until I gain some blogger skillz, it is now 2:51 in the morning as I publish this. Fan-fucking-tastic.