Unrelated

I have this feeling of unravalling. It's not a breakdown where my world seems so unchanged that it cracks down the middle. It's more of a changing feeling. Things are changing within me like a chemical reaction, mild anger, irritation like poison ivy. I think that I am untwisting and will eventually be re-twisted by whatever life is preparing for me. I don't think I like it because this, I know, means that I will have to cut things off. People off. For the good of myself and nothing more. I know I am selfish, but I am unaccustomed to completely altering and setting myself aside. I set other people aside. It happens. I deal. It's just upsetting to me when I have to do this kind of thing. I love my friends. But something has got to and will give. Hence my unravalling. I only have so much room in my fiber for so many people. I can only embrace for so long before I entirely have the attitude of "Fuck off if you don't like it. No, seriously." So here I am, changing again, not liking it.
I can't help but feel the jealousy in the air; I am not a jealous person, so I guess I don't understand it.
I want to cry as well as say fuck it, it doesn't matter. I can't help it when people feel as though they need me. I can't help it when people are sad and need a shoulder and I have a sturdy one and other people don't like it. I tend to embrace difference, and it's sad that I must spin out like a self-squeezing mop because other people can't accept the colorful indifference of other people.
So I'll just sit here and unravall because it's all that I can do. Those who can remain in the fiber will know who they are.

I am admittedly lazy. Today, I had a Senior Seminar class with professor Lisa Crafton, a woman who is her eyes. Her teaching strategy, I think, is through smiling critical eyes in that she calls on you by looking at you, expecting an educated answer. I always read my texts and think for that class, if only for the eyes that happily urge me to use my brain. I always feel intelligant and inquisitive after the class, a feeling that I do not normally get after an intensive English class. After my class, however, my brain seemed to shut down. I walked aimlessly back to my apartment, my mind becoming heavy and irritated; I distinctly remember being followed by a butterfly all the way home, but it was so lucid, it could have just not been real. I completely forgot that I should have been reading, writing, or even drawing; just keeping busy to make sure that I didn't go to sleep and waste the day. After lunch, which tasted like salty cardboard nuggets, I simply went to sleep. For three and a half hours. It was meant to be. After my nap and after mindless t.v., internet and music, I set to reading...about ten pages. Then Anthony calls me and we have a mid-evening cap and watch some tv. Still no progress. My life is an idiot this day. I mindlessly go to the grocery store and spend too much money on nothing, make plans to go out for drinks after the Lambda meeting.
And that's about it.

Tomorrow I think should be "Short story time" as opposed to random improv exercises.

For anyone who knows me personally, my constant need to document my life is apparent. However, today, as I sat in my senior seminar class, I pondered on my love of writing narrative. Not just day-to-day musings, but the nitty gritty parts of my observations which I normally leave out. The things that I make note of in my mind, like the single brown hair that was irritating me on the conference table, curling ominously, the root pearl-like and grossly annoying; things like that I can't keep leaving out of my day and forgetting just because of their supposed insignifigance.
I always look at narrative as a chore. It is like having to do the dishes by hand after dinner time. If not done on a regular basis, the food dries on the dishes, making the chore harder, the food more stubborn to scrape off. After a few days, festering in soapy grey greasy dishwater with the spaghetti sauce grease floating in bubbly disks on top, it's just not something that I want to do. There are so many people I want to write about. Just regular people. But out of laziness and lack of initiative, I just don't do it. I become infatuated with people all the time, like a fifteen minute crush because they have interesting hair, or they have a neat dog, or they look at the ground in an inquisitive way that makes me speculate their lives. Then they disappear forever. I used to be in the habit of carrying a "spy journal" to write about the people who I did not want to forget. It isn't just the people either, but the surroundings and the situations that we share as I spy on them without their knowing. I don't usually get caught.
This narrative journal is mine, however. It's this thing I own because my mind won't shut the fuck up. But it's like plaque build-up, and it's time for the dentist. So whoever reads it, if anyone, don't be offended. Really.