dear douchebag,

i don’t know who you are, mostly because you never gave your name. i know that you were a male, by your voice. i know that you “needed to talk to spencer, please, please, i need to talk to spencer, that kid that lives across the hall? spencer.”

both of these are perfectly acceptable things. approximately half of the human population is born male, so that’s normal. i don’t know if i’d be calling anyone begging to talk to spencer like my life depended on it, but i guess depending on your level of social retardation, that can be “normal,” too.

my beef with you, mr douchebag, is that you so desperately needed to talk to dear ol’ i-just-got-a-really-bad-haircut-please-don’t-think-i’m-an-annoying-rich-kid, and couldn’t even call him yourself. you somehow found my cellphone number, and called me, spence’s neighbor. i don’t clearly see how whatever method you used to track down my cell phone number couldn’t have been used to also track down what you were so desperately seeking, susan, but okay. whatever. we’ll call you… problem-solve-matic for the time being, but don’t get too cozy in the title. it’s mine.

no no no… all of this is acceptable to its own degree–even if some of those degrees are really quite low, and i’m stretching to not have called you a douchebag for all of that.

no, see… what makes you a douchebag is all of the above combined with the fact that it all happened at four thirty this morning.

on what plane of existance do you reside where calling a complete stranger’s cell phone at four thirty in the morning, asking her not only to wake up, but to vacate her oh-so-cozy warm bed and the mental state she was in that led her to believe she wasn’t cuddling with herself, so that you can talk to her neighbor across the hall?

“*mumbling* hlo?”
“yes. hi. kimberly? hi. do you know spencer? across the hall? spencer. he’s your neighbor. across the hall.”
“*still mumbling* yeh. i know ‘im.”
“um… could you give him the phone? i need to talk to him. to spencer. across the hall. please? please.”
“*slightly more alert given the absurdity of what just happened* you want me to what?”
“um.. give the phone to spence, if you could. please? i’ll owe you pretty much anything. please.”
“*very sure that she’s dreaming* sure. whatever.”
–goes across hall and bangs on door–
“spencer?”
“*mutters something*“
“you, uh, have a phone call.”
“what?”
“someone called me and asked for you.”
“well, fuck that.”
“they sound desperate.”
“*sigh* whatever”
–hands phone over–
–conversation between douchebag on the phone and idiot in the bed–
“uh, thanks.”
–hands phone back–
–kim goes back to bed very, very, annoyed–

i hope now that it’s daytime, dear douchebag, that you may be able to see the complete asshattery of what you’ve done to me and my dreams and my warm bed and my need to never see spencer half naked in bed with some no-name-girl.

be warned… now that i have your number, i might, just might, gain the testes needed to do the same to you. thankfully for us all, i’m not a complete tool.

thanks for nothing, you fucking idiot,
kim diesel

what the friend typed:
“anyway, i like your boobs. they’re nice. like you.”

what kim read:
“your personality is just as small, insignificant, and uncomfortable as your ‘tits’ are.”

when’s it going to stop being “one of those weeks”?

sad angel–computorgirl

can’t seem to get this lump off of my chest this week. it seems like everything anyone says is an attack on me… pointing out everything that i’m capable of doing wrong, and nothing that i’m capable of doing well. i’m getting the feeling that it’s because i’m simply not capable of doing anything well.

i’m being haunted once again by the feeling… fear, even… that i’m really just not cut out for this. i have no experience, and as much as i’d love to blame friutport for all of that, i know that’s a copout. the plain and simple truth is that i don’t have the experience because i’m just not working hard enough. i’m not going after enough, and i’m not making enough out of what i have gone after. i’m failing at my own hand and it pretty much just sucks that i can’t handle who i am. starting to re-realize that i’m never going to be what i want to be and that i’m always going to fail, no matter how hard i think i’m trying.

–me, copied exactly from my notes, circa sometime during my 6-9.45 class thursday night.

things have, i suppose, improved slightly since then. since the writing of this, i’ve had two teachers, that i’ve known for maybe a week, thank me for being in their class. this changes nothing, as i don’t know what on earth spurred it, and it doesn’t make any goddamned sense, given the very small amount of time i’ve known them (and that i was actually trying to get one of them to understand how dumb they’re coming off as).

… was just asked to watch a movie, and when i responded that i didn’t have a preference to what we watched, the light was extinguished and the door was closed. thanks for asking?

i don’t want to be depreseed this weekend. i want to fully enjoy this weekend.

it’s not going to happen. i can see it now. i’m going to be a big lumpy pile off depressing bullshit, and roommate’s boyfriend’s going to think that it’s because of him. which it sort of is, but indirectly. i like boyfriend. we get along (for the most part), and i consider him a friend. but then entire time he’s around and they’re together i feel like the world is laughing at me.

laughing because i’ve never had anyone to give two shits about me. laughing because i’ve always stood alone. now, yeah, i like standing alone… but i’m willing to go out on a limb and say that there’s a big damn difference between “alone” and “lonely.” i like being independent, and i like doing things for myself, and i like trying to make my life what i want it to be (ignoring for now how greatly i may fail at that last point).

but let us consider for a second the fact that the only kiss i’ve gotten since october was from wifey on the captain’s birthday. and she was joking. i’ve not been held in as long.

i’ve said it once, and i’ll continue to repeat myself because it’s a part of my personality, but i’m a cuddlewhore… i’m a five year old… i crave constant physical contact. i need to be held… or just hugged strongly once in a fucking while. i got my first real hug today for the first time in god knows when.

sigh.

ignore all of that. i’m sorry if you’ve made it this far. perhaps now would be a good time to start trying to make this real. no one needs to hear kim’s emodepressingbullshit.

i heard an lb’er complain the other day in the dining hall, “i got, like, six hours’ sleep last night!” six hours?! man, those were the days…

a man smoking a cigar passed me while walking through the garden yesterday morning, and i really can’t figure how cigar-smoking became a symbol of “manhood.” i cannot think of a single thing, aside from the act itself, that looks more like sucking cock.

my textbook for media crit and theory is the widely acclaimed film art. so far, while reading film art, i have had two thoughts:
1) sherlock holmes was addicted to cocaine?
2) i really need to watch more movies. at least, more of the movies that are discussed in the book, so that i can figure out just how in the hell some of these events are connected.

speaking of class, i’m going to go get some work done for them. yes, homework on a friday night… i lead a glamorous life. (the typo there was almost “clamorous.” freudian slip?)

all morning i’ve been nestled inbetween wanting to cry for no reason at all and a really strong urge to vomit.

my legs are heavy when i walk. this body is not my own.
i look in the mirror, and i don’t see me. that girl isn’t me.

that girl isn’t anybody.

the sun is shining and the world is beautiful, and i just want to set it all on fire. i want to lose my mind and sob and scream and set the whole beautiful world on fire.

except for the owl i saw in the garden today. he can stay.
the rest of the world can just go straight to fucking hell.

i’ll save a seat.

yes, but what will you sleep on?

i guess technically i’m a little less homeless than i was twelve hours ago.

rumor is spreading fast, best catch the words before they dissipate into oblivion.
pardon my not-so-poetic-injustice, i just watched sideways again. it was preceded by blade trinity.

my ability to combine what are possibly the best and worst movies of 2004 in one movie-watching-peanut-butter-enjoying-night-of-celebration-and-headache-killing astounds even me. (i refuse to count napolean dynamite. it never existed. stop making yourself think that you enjoyed it. it was all just a really, really bad dream.)

i don’t wanna grow up. the panic attacks are too much.
oh, how i pine for the day when i can afford an accountant.

i need to get creative before i get stuck.

semi-charmed life, indeed.

let us all never underestimate the power of lynyrd skynyrd. i know a little ’bout love, but baby i can guess the rest… c’mon. that’s great.

it’s friday night, and i’m doing homework. my media crit notes are printing as i type this, and yes i know i’m a loser for typing my notes. i’ll be sure not to tell you that i use the highlighter tool, too. (but if i did use the highlighter tool, i’d use yellow for definitions, blue for silly quotes, pink for the snarky things i write during class, and green for every mention of homework.)

i mentioned to texas-emo-hair at work the other day that i never thought working at nhccs could feel so much like office space. i’ve barely been back, and my boss is enjoying pointing out all of the stupid little mistakes that i’m making because i’ve been off for a month. thing is, there are a lot of them. i’ve only been off for a month, and it’s not like the job’s hard. what the fuck is wrong with me? i’ve barely been challenged and i’m already fucking it up.

things keep this pace, and it will undoubtedly be a great semester. *inflict own sarcasm at will*

the other day, however, there was pineapple in the parfait i got from the emerson cafe. it’s the little things, i guess.

lake michigan

it’s not even that it’s my favorite place. it’s more that. it’s more than just some place i can run to and relax… it’s my soul.

it’s amazing to me that i have found a place in this world where i can go and see an actual, physical representation of everything that i am.

i can be moody.

cold.

beautiful.

fun.

harsh.

dangerous.

mysterious.

and so… so much more.

it’s not just a lake. it’s everything. it’s the universe. it’s all and it’s nothing.

kimnote: yes, these were all taken on the same midmorning. glorious day, it was. glorious indeed.

x-posted

idea encouraged to be stolen from an lj friend, angry_biscut. it’s beautiful, so i am.

we all know how much i love hand-written letters. and we all know how much we love music. that’s why i’m taking this project on… i think it’s a great way to combine two of my favorite things.

so here’s the idea as stolen from jb… I’m going to make a cd mix of the songs that would appear on the sountrack to the movie about my life, if ever one were to be made. I’m going to make lots of copies of it. To get one of these cds from me along with a handwritten letter, here’s what you have to do:

1. Comment with something you’d like me to write to you about.
2. e-mail me (kimberly.diesel@gmail.com) with your mailing address, using “lj mix tape” as the subject (yes, i’m using filters for this… i know i’m a loser.)
3. Consider taking this project on yourself, posting similarly in your own blog.
4. Be patient with me as I have a million things going on, and a really bad memory. it’s going to take me a while to get these things out.

make me feel… beautiful

i wanted to do the lake michigan post, because it haunts me somethin’ beautiful, but blogger’s being a bitch with the upload thing. maybe eventually. hold on to eventually.

papa was recently diagnosed with diabetes. given my current health history, i’m going to die a horrible and painful death afflicted with everything that has ever been considered horrible and/or painful. part of me wants to fake fate out. become some superbeing and dodge it all. another part of me realises that i only have one life to live, and if i’m going to die horribly and painfully, there had goddamned better be some medical marijuana involved in my treatment.

i don’t even know if i’d want treatment. if you’re diagnosed with a terminal illness, why waste money on stretching it out over the next few, miserable years? i’m not talking about the diabetes, since that’s hardly terminal anymore, but cancer or something. i can’t say with certainty how long i’d fight to hold on.
it can all go back to a sirsy song… can’t you see that it’s all just a fantasy? please, go down with some dignity.

and i ramble. so what.

i start my second semester with asl II. how fucking awesome is that? and then, to kick my ass like only nameless-huge-corporate-coffee-shop can, thursday seems as if it’s going to be the day when my stress really starts. (wasn’t there a time when i was going to abbreviate that to nhccs?)

it’s gonna hurt, because i’ve been so out of practice, but it’s gonna hurt ohsogood. i can’t wait. i sleep so much better when i’m exhausted. that’s a lie. i actually tend to wear myself so thin, that i can’t sleep. talk about suck.

it’s go time, methinks. time to clean, time to pack, time to care.

i wish i thought as profound as i feel.

"can i have a marshmallow?"

ran off to the lake today for the first time this break.
the sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the waves were crashing on the pier.
many pictures taken. will share after i’ve had my fun with them.

i broke down yesterday. did something i swore to myself that i’d never do.
comforted myself by telling me it’s my little secret. it’s not like anyone has to know about it.
and, really, it’s not like it was a bad thing.

sentence fragments are fun. i love that i know the english language well enough to use them at will. poor grammar is only acceptable when it’s done on purpose.

i was reading last night, a feat that needs to occur more often. i was finishing up lafcadio, the lion who shot back by shel silverstein… a little christmas present to myself. i’ve been obsessed with shel silverstein since i was little. i bawled when he died, and i was only 12. he’s had more of an impact on my childhood and imagination than dr. suess ever could. fuck dr. suess. i’m in love with uncle shelby.

i squealed when i reached the last page of lafcadio. suddenly, all of my obsession had an anchor.

it seems that dear old uncle shelby and i share a birthday. that day is september 25, if any of you sweet children care to know.

i can’t wait to get back to school. and classes. and work. and apartment hunting. and stress. glorious, glorious stress.