Ugh, is it 2012 yet? I've recently confirmed that my pattern holds true: that odd years are the worst for me, and now that I've admitted that to myself I essentially want to give up on 2011. I've lost all will to see this year through. 2011 has sucked. I'm ready to be done with it. I usually refrain from being so bad-mood and absolute, but if I'm going to have bad luck for three more months I might as well not waste time mincing words.
On a positive note I have my Halloween costume taken care of. This is of great comfort to me.
On a contemplative note I had to write a fictional short about an anti-hero. I think I was the only person in the class who didn't know what an anti-hero is. I conflated the term with antagonist. When the teacher asked if everyone was clear, I thought no, not really, and out loud said what's an anti-hero, like Iago? And she said Iago was a good example, and I thought uhhh don't know why I said that but I guess I get the gist, when I didn't. So I walked away with some very muddled notion of anti-hero. Later, my boyfriend led me to believe that anti-heroes are people like Woody Allen and Holden Caufield. Still unclear. So I wrote a piece in which every character is some personification of one of my notions of antihero. It's about a quasi-miserable college student who fancies herself as a poet. She is in love with her best friend who is dating someone else who is pretty full of herself. The quasi-miserable poet has an annoying poet rival and in the end the miserable poet's rival writes a pretty good villanelle about jealousy, which is supposed to be ironic because the poet is so miserable she can't even realize she's jealous of everything.
Of course the entire assignment is too damn long, with four different manifestations of anti-heroes, so I'm going to have to combine them all into one character. The villanelle's supposed to be good and I'm not going to pretend my poetry is excellent, so I won't use the villanelle in the story, but I'll copy it here for you.
I danced with Jealousy last night under a black tar moon.
Her sash bled red intention and her hands were yellowed lace.
She shushed me with her lips while humming our sad tune.
The singer was a wine bottle and the drummer a black balloon.
The guitarist wore a tablecloth and a coatrack played the bass.
I danced with Jealousy last night under a black tar moon.
I wore my best sombrero and a borrowed green festoon.
I forgot upon arrival how to leave her place.
She shushed me with her lips while humming our sad tune.
She put her finger down my throat and I coughed up a silver spoon.
She pulled the death card from my hand and replaced it with an ace.
I danced with Jealousy last night under a black tar moon.
She serenaded me sober and led me down the back staircase.
She twirled me twice around before I realized she had your face.
I danced with Jealousy lat night under a black tar moon.
She shushed my questions with her lips while humming our sad tune.
I like poetry alright. I used to write it a lot. I've tried a couple times to publish with no luck. For the most part I find writing poetry to be good for me and no one else. To be honest I don't get most poetry. No, I take that back—I could probably read a poem and give you a fairly intelligent evaluation of its significance. That last sentence was mostly my $45,000 a year education speaking. But I read poems in the New Yorker, and I'm just like what? Though to be fair I think the New Yorker's poetry...well, I know it's not my style, let's put it that way. Ugh.
Being 24 is hard. It never gets any easier. Except for in 2012.
To a brighter future!
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