so I am working on my masters and it sucks. I am sick of it. so I am going to write a blog entry, but not too long, because I have to finish this draft by tommorow or else I can’t go to San francisco like I planned on to see twilight and visit a psychic with my friend J.
I am home for the weekend and went to an old person’s thanks giving, my grandma, my nana, my mom, my cousins, my cousin’s portguese stepmotehr who only speaks portguese, mostly, and my grandmother’s boyfriend. I think thanksgiving is one of my least favorite holidays. The old people talk about their cruises, and then ask me how work is going, and I can hardly tell them how some kid left my classroom screaming, “fuck that N—–, fuck that N——” as he went running down the hall. Ok, maybe I did. My mother told me I should go back to teaching junior high. It was probably inappropiate dinner conversation.
Incidentally, tuesday was my worst day of teaching of all time. For the first time, I left school seriously depressed, wondering what the hell I was doing, would it ever get better? and why they were so bad? Actually, more happened on tuesday, more than I care to write about or remember. But because I believe in celebrating important moments-such as THE WORST DAY IN MY TEACHING CAREER (so far, hey it’s only been a few months) I went out and bought my sorry ass a bottle of pink champagne and sat on the couch and watched cable all night with Monica and fell asleep watching Extreme Makeover. I might have also bought a pack of cigarettes.
Fine. I staretd smoking again.
I also had a moment when yearned for the implacable calmness of prozac.
So thanks giving went on and on. My mother announced to everyone that she wanted grandchildren(no shit) and that next year, why didn’t I bring a boyfriend to thanksgiving? Fantastic.
The old, portguese lady told me, through a translator, that I was very beautiful and was lucky that I was so tall. See, that is nicer.
My grandma’s boyfriend made jokes about me getting drunk from sparkling cider and I ate a piece of chocolate pecan pie.
Every year, the holidays make me feel more and more like some sort of cliched, downtrodden, chick lit character, sneaking cigaretttes in teh back? yes I am. Family who thinks my life is incomplete without signficant other? Yes. Pointless internet dating profile? yes. On a diet and probably should not have eaten that stupid chocolate turkey? Yes. Own a cat? Yes. LIst getting more sad as depressing british male singer just came on my itunes? Yes, Will Young.
In thinking about it, it’s too bad that life isn’t like a sad chick lit novel as there would be a sucessful, lawyer/doctor/cowboy(british?) right around the corner.
Instead, there is no one. Not even a hint of anyone. It’s just me, my cat, and my work.
and htis stupid fucking thesis which is never going to be done.
