|
outcast2world
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Bridget
Country: United States
State: Pennsylvania
Metro: Reading
Birthday: 10/22/1989
Gender: Female
Interests: Hair dye, computers, theatre arts, singing, classic rock, metal, punk, etc., cats, dogs, aquariums, pokemon, people, nature, photography, guitar, piano, bass, dew, bawls, jolt, perfecting the pouty lip, my camera
Expertise: Web design and graphic art, looking like a boy, and being a general pain in the butt.
Occupation: Computer related (Internet)
Industry: Computers (Internet)
Message: message me
AIM:  BELizzy
AIM:  Wiseone1089
Member Since:
5/3/2004
|
|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| Emile Durkheim:
Social Fact (or social force): Anything external and coercive upon the individual, that forces people to act or think in some way. Pointed out by observation. Fashion is social fact. People believe that they dress how they like, but we are persuaded by society, climate, and family.
Meryl Streep:
Played Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada: "You go to your closet and you select out, oh I don't know, that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you're trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don't know is that that sweater is not just blue, it's not turquoise, it's not lapis, it's actually cerulean. You're also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar De La Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And then I think it was Yves St Laurent, wasn't it, who showed cerulean military jackets? I think we need a jacket here. And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of 8 different designers. Then it filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic casual corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of some clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and so it's sort of comical how you think that you've made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you're wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room. From a pile of stuff."
Coincidence? I think not.
| | |
| It occurs to me that I am damaged.
I do not know what pot smells like because it was such a standard scent when I was growing up. Now it only reminds me of broken family and abandonment.
Lies make me think of drugs and then death.
My intuition is stronger than most people's sense of smell. I have no choice but to trust it because it is almost always right... and sometimes it causes an at-the-time illogical fear of someone or something.
Hedonistic people sometimes frighten me into tears
I cannot sleep the night of November 4th.
I feel like I am a failure because my parents failed, not because I have yet.
I need to hold onto something when I sleep or I feel like I am falling.
I can't talk to cashiers, and I can't talk on the phone without being upset. I panic and pace and turn red.
I am physically incapable of not worrying. I have rituals, and I -must- act them out or I am inconsolable.
I plan things. It calms me. But if things don't go according to "plan" I become restless and anxious.
I can't pay attention to people talking sometimes. I've even spaced in the middle of a conversations with professors. I've had to ask them to say it all over again.
I receive good grades out of some sort of moral obligation and I've discovered that I just don't care.
When I get truly upset, I shut down and refuse to talk to anyone.
The biggest consumption of gas is grief.
I have no idea what I am going to do with my life, even though I like to pretend I have a plan.
I have no idea how someone could love all of this, but apparently someone does.
| | |
| “I watch him in the kitchen, and I think of how much it hurts to love somebody. How deep the hurt is, how almost unbearable. It’s not the love that hurts; it’s the possibility of anything happening to the object of your love. Like, I would not want him to lose his mind. But I’d be much more fearful of me losing my mind, because then he’d be the one left alone.
Just like I want him to die first, so that he doesn’t have to lose me and be alone. Or if I have to die first, I want to find him someone else beforehand, I want to hand-pick somebody and then get to know this person and make sure [she’s] up to the task. I imagine there would be paperwork involved, with serious consequences if [she] breached the contract in any way. Love, unconditional. Or else you will lose your 401(k) plan, and your credit report will be forever destroyed, and there will be prison time.
So then I stop myself from thinking these thoughts because it’s like tearing at a wound, opening it wider when it’s trying to heal. Or actually, it’s more like inflicting the wound yourself with a paring knife.
What’s painful and wonderful about loving somebody is loving their small things…
The truth is, he has no bad qualities and no faults. When he’s working late and I’m alone, or sometimes when we’re in bed together, lights off, I try and make even a small list in my mind of his faults: Things I Put Up With Out of Love. But I haven’t been able to think of a single thing that I am not able to first overlook and then come to cherish.”
-- Augusten Burroughs
| | |
| I'm sick.
My family's out, so I'm alone and sick, and removing the contents of my stomach frequently.
I had class today, but I can't drive, so I can't go.
Ugh.
| | |
| I feel like something has been ripped away from me.
I left him a note saying that I loved him, but that I couldn't really explain it well enough to really represent that.
He'll be home in late November. No sooner, as per his parents' request.
I missed him before he left.
| | |
|
