Turkey and Tragedy
Man that sounds melodramatic. C'est la vie. Show goes on.

I'm so meh lately. It's crap and I don't know why it's happening. I'm just lost. I feel an incredible lack of feeling... Which is probably what bothers me so much. I feel like I can't feel. Can't be happy, can't be sad, just can't be anything.

Less important: I made Thanksgiving dinner. It went relatively well. I was somewhat impressed but am very tired and avoiding the dishes. I've successfully avoided them for three hours now. We'll see how much longer I can hold out.

More important: I graduate in June and I don't know what happens after. If I'm doing grad school/teacher school I need to take tests so I can apply to said programs. If I'm not, I need to figure out what the fuck I am doing. The editing thing has been coming back (but maybe that's just way to distance myself from meaningful pursuits), and that's probably doable without the grad school, but I should try to get an internship before I go look for a real job.

I don't know what to do with my life and no one is ever any help in figuring it out. I wish someone would tell me what to do. I know that no one can. But it would be helpful if someone could just help me figure out what I want to do... what I CAN do... what I should do. It's no help to hear that I could do anything I want to do. I don't want to do everything I want to do (there's a great sentence). Whenever things are serious, whenever we have THAT talk, it always falls back to writing and maybe somewhere I know that I should pursue the shit, but personally I don't know if I can. I don't know if I want to. I don't know if I'm up to it... There's just. If you're going to be a writer, if you're going to make it as a writer, you have GOT to believe in what you're doing, in what you're making. And I have my periods of writer-ness. I have my bouts of confidence and perfection. But it doesn't last... And I think it has to last. I don't know. I hate thinking about writing. I hate having these little bouts of "Should I really be a writer" because so often I feel like I come off to everyone as really saying "Do you think I'm good" -- Which, honestly, is PART of the question, but not in a way that's fishing for compliments. It's a rational "Am I really good enough to make it as a writer or are we just bullshitting because I'm entertaining."
Fuck it.

Somewhat Important: I had this argument with Victor at Sy's the other day about him being smarter than me (which he flat out denies, and I'm not even going to start into right now). And the bottom line has to do with me retaining information. Because I don't. I don't know anything about anything and I'm really close to being done with my undergraduate work. Yes, BA's mean nothing. But I've been in enough really good classes, I've read so many fucking books/novels/plays/poems that I should know something about anything. And I don't. I'm not saying that I'm not smart, because I am (there was an unexpected admission). I'm good at the time. I can read and I can theorize and I can pull shit out of nothing that holds up to close scrutiny. I can write a kickass analysis of a piece of literature. I can get A's. But it doesn't mean that I know anything. I lack long-term intelligence. And this all sounds like a downer (and it really is because I feel like a fraud and it's the main reason I get resentful and anti-social), but the point of this is that upon further thought I arrived upon a bit of a revelation. I think the problem isn't me so much as where I put myself. I got into English because of my love of literature and my love of thinking about literature. But I really think it's the wrong major. (A great revelation to have when I'm two terms from being done). I think I should have stuck with Philosophy. I think that if I'd dedicated my time to thinking about theories of thinking everything would have stuck. I would be able to have that intelligent conversation that majors of all sorts have about their chosen subject. Then again, it might not have and I might be having the same feeling right now with a different major. It just sucks and just now when I went outside with John I was trying to remember why I switched and I got a really kind of sick feeling because it was the stupidest reason ever. I dropped Philosophy when I moved to Eugene because before that, the plan was to go to grad school and get a PhD in philosophy. The problem? I thought I was switching schools too much and it would keep me from getting in. So I switched to Journalism (and aren't we all glad I didn't follow that poor plan). I gave up philosophy because I didn't think I'd be able to get into grad school because I'd be going to a total of four schools before I got my BA.
That. Sucks.
Meh.

Conclusion:
There is none. I'm lost. I'm lonely. I'm loved but it doesn't matter a whole hell of a lot when I can't love myself. And why can't I love myself? Beyond all of the bullshit reasons, because I don't know who the fuck I am. And how can you ever really love a stranger?