A Little Stressed

I initially intended to start my Storytime blog but once again time has slipped away from me. I really wish I had more time to put updates on my blogspot because this blog is not just for the fans but it's for me to remember alll the things that I have experienced...kind of like a photograph. I have so much to talk about but I guess it will have to wait.....

N e ways, I have been a little stressed out these days because I have four projects that I have to finish in four weeks. I do not even know how I am going to get it all done before I leave. It's a bit overwhelming. The computers at work crashed today so I was a bit upset since I have so much I need to get done. Boo. Three of the projects I'm pretty sure I can finish but I cannot get to them until I finish the fourthe project which is giving me a headache. They are letting me build a database to store their UNICA documentation. Building a database does not require high level computer science skills it's just tedious as hell. But it's definitely something I'm pushing myself through considering it's a good opportunity...it's kind of surreal to leave my mark on a Fortune 500 company.

I had a meeting today with a recruiter in HR and they really want me to come back. This keeps adding to the stress because I really want to go and get my MBA. But the longer I work here, the more I feel split down the middle. I think that I have finally made the decision to work after graduation for at least a year and then pursue my MBA. After all, an MBA is more valuable with work experience. In addition, that will cut some of the financial stress of getting through my last year of undergrad since I will not have outstanding application fees. I still will be taking the GMAT next month. The scores last for up to five years (I think). If I take it now, I will not have to worry about it later. In addition, it will motivate me to make sure I stay on track with getting a MBA.

I'll get a break shortly because my roommates birthday is coming up and we are suppose to go jetsking out Lake Mead.

N e ways...enough of the boring career talk (I think I'm starting to turn into a workaholic in that it's the only thing that's ever on my mind).....


I am still working on my book. It's been a while since I posted any new progress. That's mainly because I was not happy with the direction I was taking it. It sounded too prosey and lyrical. I want it to sound more disturbing, cynical, and intellectual. So within the last week, I have completely revamped it. I have pages of material written but I am only happy with about a page (I'm a bit OCD and a perfectionist when it comes to my work, I guess that's why I'm easily stressed by it). So without further ado...here is part of the introduction of my soon-to-be-novel revamped (just a side note, my tenses are lil off..will edit later):



Tentative Title: The Ingenious Mind of a Staged Schizophrenic

I thought the therapists would be my savior. I thought that they could help me. I thought that they could give me some understanding as to why things were the way they were. I wanted to stop escaping the world by living through other people's eyes. I wanted my perspective to take hold of the reality that was in front of me. I wanted to be free. Most importantly, I wanted them to tell me that I was crazy…to give me some reason for the disparity between me and everyone else. Diagnosis: Sane. Was I crazy or was I just a good actress?

I could not remember the last time I had sex. The likelihood of a repeat occurrance was an event that I had a hard time foreseeing in the future. The infinity of the idea left me bereft like a convict in a jail cell or a fiend without any money. I had tallied two-hundred days, thirteen hours, forty-five minutes, and forty-six seconds...I lay imprisoned in a jail graffitied with exactly eighteen million, two-hundred and eighty thousand, two-hundred and fourteen records. There had been a tally for every day, every hour, every minute, and every second. The only solace I had was my perverse imagination which, in the last couple of days, had been on vacation. Without a present love interest, who would I meet in the tryst of my dreams? The preoccupation had become an unappealing pastime yet it was a drug that I could not seem to abandon. The sordid amusement and fascination that I had with my own imagination was my sanity...or maybe it was my insanity, who knew. What I did know was that there was always a method to my madness, my actions, my thoughts, and my sudden indecision. That method was always sex. I had had an endless stream of shallow crushes even though I am not a girly-girl, I wanted to be in a monogamous relationship even though I am non-committal, women were becoming more appealing even though I am homophobic, and I wanted to be a Madonna-whore even though whores are maggot-infested rats who should be put in concentration camps. It appeared that I was an empty vessel of contradictions. I blamed it on my vajayjay. She is the most demanding bitch that I know. All of it was of her defect. I did everything for her. I washed her when she was dirty. I gave her weekly shape-ups. I even massaged her when she was feeling down. Her demands are incessant as an inquistive child. She requires constant feeding since, as a child, she lacks the capabilities of feeding herself. And let me tell you, at the time, this bitch was definitely starving. All she needed was a pacifier to keep her from whining.

I have always thought that I was one with upstanding morale. But as I become more acquainted with my personal dispositions, I realized that I am more concerned with consequences rather than ridgidly upholding civil and moral law. I have always been that untamed, unbridled horse who needs the boundaries instituted by my captives to keep from breeding a stampede and running a muck. Or maybe I am more like a black widow patiently and diligently spinning a calculated web of chaos in order to attack my prey. Lately I feel most akin to Lewis Carroll's Cheshire. Whatever analogy I seem to fit, the point is, criminal thoughts enter my mind on a daily basis. Criminal psychology suggests that the habit is perfectly normal. What is abnormal are those who coincide their immoral thoughts with their actions. It kind of makes you wonder what people think about at night. What type of thoughts do people have when they are between being awake and being asleep? Who are they when they linger between consciousness and unconsciousness? What do people think about in the recesses, in that remote and distant place?

It is my belief that it is during this phenomenon that people are one-hundred percent themselves. It is probably the only place where people are comfortable to walk around totally naked like Eve in the Garden of Eden standing next to the gallows of original sin. I am a recent follower of Pelagianism. Accordingly, my belief is that each individual is a living and breathing pedulum who must decide the course of their own deliverance. Each individual presides over their own Eden and subsequently, must either choose to be comfortable in their own skin or seek the glorification of being a god. It is the will of Yahweh to lay exposed. Who am I to go against instinct? Malefactors are those who cover-up, who lie. They are those who eventually hang themselves from the Tree of Knowledge. Those who lay naked eat from the Tree of Life.

I am one who has always lived and breathed in the world between the recesses. I unapologetically wear my brain on my sleeves. It is nowonder why to many I am deemed heartless. Of course I beg to differ. After all, what is a heart without a brain? It is a basic part of human functionality. Neither can work without the other. Therefore, I am simultaneously both rational and sensitive. I am both serious and simple. I am a cynical optimist or rather, an optimistic cynic. The irony behind my disposition is what brands me a realist or rather, a surrealist. It is what makes me more human than anyone else...or maybe more non-human since humanity implies imperfection and inhumanity implies callousness. Callousness is far from my nature. It is integrity that steers me. And to uphold integrity, I must be blatant enough to admit that I am constantly fondled by thoughts of sex and I regularly wish I could make people tap dance to a BB gun when they trouble me with trifles.

My nature may seem rather brusque...but what else is there to be expected from a girl-woman from the ghetto? What else is there to be expected from a girl-woman who has evolved from mixed worlds, who has lost her since of place, whose life is based on surrealism?