her exams one agonizing week away, her nerves worn raw, her friends and boyfriend intelligently beating a hasty retreat as far away as possible, her family well-meaning but far away, the exams still firmly in the ERFAHRUNG category and not yet in the much more attractive ERLEBNIS one, the weather of Southern Californnia continuing to be bafflingly chilly and damp, her kitchen sometimes on fire but defintely bereft of foodstuffs, her room an usettling pyre of the German canon, her reasons for doing this with her life when she had a perfectly respectable career as a professional TV watcher in question, all of her personal relationships hanging by a thread, her weight actually down to what it says on her driver’s license (bringing the conundrum: should she get a new driver’s license so that she can have a new fake weight?) due to her inability to consume any foodstuffs due to her stomach’s proclivity for containing a massive substantive pit of dread, her litany of melodramatic ailments drawing to an anticlimactic close.

The conundrum about a time like this is: I am the worst possible company ever. I am so unpleasant to be around I am surprised nobody has duct-taped my mouth shut yet (funny story about duct tape if you want to hear it–meth-addict ex-roommate legend, I’ll get to it momentarily), and studying for stupid qualifying examinations is hardly planning a world fucking war, I REALIZE IT IS NOT A VERY BIG DEAL AND I AM NOT IMPORTANT AND THIS DOES NOT MAKE ME FEEL ANY BETTER, and I don’t really want to be around anyone right now and don’t really want anyone around me, and yet–I want people to *want* to be around me, to want to help me even though they can’t, to tell me that they are there even though I don’t want them there, to reassure me that I am a good person with a good heart underneath all of this stress, to just give me a fucking hug.

And now appropos of nothing, here is something I just found out about my ex-roommate the Romanian meth addict junkie life-ruiner. Apparently a few weeks ago she was so hopped up on meth that she duct-taped every single switch in her apartment on–the garbage disposal, the stove, the faucets, the showers, the lights, the TV, etc etc etc…so that the "tape recorders" wouldn’t be able to pick up the voices in her head. I love meth addicts because they are so deluded as to think anything they have to say would be worth recording even by an imaginary tape recorder. Kind of like I am deluded into thinking that anyone wants to read the self-obsessed pessimistic academic rantings of someone who used to be interesting and fun on the Intronet.

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