Journal 11/29. Not Poem.

Say goodnight to the roommate and her boyfriend around 11:45…a quarter of an hour after I try to go to bed to maintain schedule.

See mess on bedroom floor and decide to clean up before sleep.

Stick pictures of and from nieces and nephews and kids I babysit on the backside of my door.  Also postcards, word-side up.

“…climbing mountains is man’s great folly.”  -Jack

Curl up in bed.


Try to sleep.

Roommate and boyfriend get loud.  Roommate laughs loudly, alone.  Doesn’t stop for literal minutes.

Blankets over head make no difference.

Cue intro to The Daily Show in other room.

Walls so thin.

Blast Neutral Milk Hotel, hoping that even though it is also noise, its relative consistency will be easier to fall asleep to than the sporadic conversation in the other room.

It isn’t.

Switch to Mountain Goats three songs in, a couple minutes after Roommate 2 crashes through the door with usual enthusiasm.

Frustrated.  Roll out of bed.  Turn on light.

Read Marie Curie lecture for Wednesday.  Write uninvited focus statement, hoping it provides extra credit.  Hoping it makes up for a days that heavy atmosphere pinned body into bed and kept self out of class.

Still noisy.

Stare at Adam Smith text.  Stare at stack of books.

Write half an email asking if I can write an essay like a screenplay.

Delete email.

This is Shimer.

Of course I can write an essay like a screenplay.


Hear roommate and boyfriend in bedroom.


Write half a page of Thursday’s essay like a screenplay.

Hear roommate again.

Still gross.

Turn computer off.  Bed.  Sleep.

2:30 am.

Wake up with alarm at 7.

Shower.  Warm.

Dress.  Sweatpants.

Kitchen.  French press.

Roommate did not wash french press.  Asked her to.

Roommate did not wash french press.  Said she would.

Glare at french press.


Almost put it where she could not reach.  Stopped by unsavory feeling of passive aggression.

Roommate comes out of bedroom.  Almost say something.  Too early.  Don’t start something when eyes barely open.

Make oatmeal.  Tea.

Bring into bedroom, planning to eat, drink and read Werner.

Thirsty.  Huge glass of water.

One sip.

20 minute nap.

Wake.  Oatmeal turned to paste.

No appetite.

Busy day ahead.



So today I saw an article on facebook credited to Ben Stein regarding the controversy over calling Christmas trees holiday trees.  It was really good, but it got preachy towards the end and made me think he hadn’t actually written it.  Turns out he hadn’t written the preachy half of it (hooray Google, for answering all of my most unimportant questions!), but he did write the part that resonated with me:

“I don’t like getting pushed around for being a Jew and I don’t think Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians. I think people who believe in God are sick and tired of getting pushed around, period. I have no idea where the concept came from that America is an explicitly atheist country. I can’t find it in the Constitution and I don’t like it being shoved down my throat. “

You can read the entire article here.  It’s short.  But you’ve already read the part that I like the best.

I am going to school at a place called Shimer and for the most part I really like it, but one thing that is driving me crazy is how prejudiced against Christianity (in particular) and religion (in general) people there are.

I have trouble calling myself a Christian most of the time.  Sometimes I think I might be one.  Sometimes I’m certain that I’m not.  Sometimes I don’t really care either way.

But I hate hate.  I hate condescension.  I hate intolerance.  I hate close-mindedness.

If I, as a person who barely has a religion at times, am offended by the disrespect displayed by the student body at Shimer, something must be wrong.  In the conversations and classes I have had, there is enough condescension, quiet hate and intolerance going around at Shimer to have passed passé and entered into the realm of super shitty and pretty boring.

I guess I’m just trying to say that it’s just nice to have someone who agrees a little bit.

Ben Steeeeiinnnn.


Looking for an
To scratch.

Looking for a
To catch
Hold of my self and
Hold of my soul
That will push me in circles,
Abandon my goals.

Looking for something
To be an excuse.

Looking for something
That needs the abuse.

Looking for something,
A sparkling noose.

Looking for something
That won’t hold so loose.

Not sugar,
Not nicotine.
Not salt,
Not taurine.
Not alcohol, caffeine.
Not Music
Not THC.

None of it works.

Looking for something
To push me around.

Looking for something.

And it won’t be found.

I’m Trying to be a Grown-up

I’m trying to be a grown-up.

Your words were awful.  They flew through my scuffed up cellphone and into my ear, but it felt like you slapped me.  I don’t mean to use an overused, clichéd metaphor, but that’s actually what it felt like.  I recoiled from the imagined physical blow and blinked into the emptiness of my bedroom.

I’m trying to be a grown-up.

Initially I wanted to correct what you got wrong, but it didn’t seem worth it.  Just like Carol Gilligan said women are apt to do, I backed down because I was already certain that you wouldn’t understand.  Your directness and your steely tone told me that you would not waver anyways.  Why start an argument that couldn’t be won?  Carol Gilligan would be mad at me.

I’m trying to be a grown-up.

I fixed by face into a grin you couldn’t see and told ou that if that was the way you felt it was find and hoped that the incredulous laughter lurking beneath it carried over to your end of the conversation.

I’m trying to be a grown-up.

We hung up.  As soon as the connection was broken I called you a mean name.  It wasn’t very original.

I’m trying to be a grown-up.

Instantly I started going over the story in my head and I tried to paint you as the villain.  I could have easily been successful , but the situation was so clearly a misunderstanding that I honestly didn’t want to.

I’m trying to be a grown-up.

I deleted your phone number, your emails.

I’m trying to be a grown-up.

This is very definitely your loss and not mine.  You chose to burn a bridge and that’s fine.  It was a non-essential bridge for my journey.  In a way, I guess it was a toll bridge of sorts.  As its owner you had everything and a half to gain from my passage, but it’s ash now.  Your money has turned to dust.

I’m really trying to be a grown-up here.