Forgot to mention I bought tattoo stick-on eyebrows. They're really sticky right now and I had to remove the right eyebrow so I have no right eyebrow because I shaved it off so it doesn't look flaky. Meanwhile, there's Prof. Audrey with her defined arched eyebrows which suit her face perfectly. I wonder if she really appreciates how much she has. She has so much room to concentrate on actual grown-up interests because no one told her she was less attractive than Julia Barretto when she was eight years old. I mean, what power would The Man have over me if he didn't look like my very own kryptonite? He'd just be another misogynistic ass milquetoast literature prof. I can't deny some of the things he says are true. But they make me really uncomfortable. Instead of concentrating on the one-act plays, my brain decides to zero in on the fact of how disgusting I must have been to both of them on April 12. "You're gonna come later." to no one in particular on the stairs of DECL. FUCK. The fact that I was the one who pursued a fucking man because I was so desperate. And what's up with that smiling girl who came down the stairs as I tried to "woo" my favorite actor? Was she deliberately told to smile at me? So that I keep going and follow the honeypot provocateur to the room awaiting the numinous awe-hair-ripped-out-of-my-scalp-nightmarish-death wish come true? I want to die today but I have to review these one-act plays. And then I can reward myself with the fucking radio. I don't know why but listening to all these random-ass songs with special meanings that I know are handpicked for me makes me feel less alone. I know I am staring into the eye of the tornado, at sin itself, but I feel really powerful knowing it can pass through my ears and I can still say no every time. I can't stop thinking of Prof. Audrey's beach pics from when she was younger. Must be nice knowing your boyfriend knows and likes how you look in immodest clothes (it's okay though because you're in a beach and that's perfectly acceptable swimwear for Christians compared to bikinis /s). Okay, I think my strengths really come from my weaknesses: one: I can unflinchingly look at what makes me uncomfortable and suicidal and revel in it for my art. I can look at suifuel and let it take over me and my mind. I have been trained to do this really well. Really fucking well. I have the scars and trauma to prove it. Now if I can only earn the fucking moolah for it. I forgot to mention that I've had no dreams at all. Like zero. For the last five days or week. I don't know if that's relevant at all. Is this supposed to be meaningful? Mimetic desire or some shit like that. Research. Two, I am She-Hulk, destroyer of fairytale smarm. Whatever loveliness that is left on this God-forsaken earth is an illusion. I literally tell my id to go look at itself and this is what it does. Megalomania. Now what made me think I'm still being monitored? prince leaving his seat before reading my play "prince is part of my--" doomsday clock from watchmen, I mentioned my doomsday deadline but I actually do have another android stuck on my mirror that shows me the 1435 or so minutes of the day counting down. Means someone is listening to me. Best to keep silent. Stop cussing. batman shadow on jodi arias chin, the "is sir talking to me/i don't want to talk let other abby talk" like seriously. one-liner??? Am i being irrational again? why the fuck would they still monitor everything i do? What exactly did I do that warrants this surveillance? For writing ALL_GO? Why did Sir Paolo do this? Does he actually have that kind of money to burn? If so, that's such a waste. Hacking me. Maybe paranoia will undo me someday. I don't know but in December 2019, I actually woke up in a cold sweat in the days after D-Day, when I stumbled into a doorway that led me to believe that what I did with ALL_GO was a huge mistake. I woke up in a cold sweat, not exactly. I couldn't sleep. I think that was my first official manic episode. My thoughts really went in all directions. I believed in my heart that I was shuttled, since I was born, right up to college, from one prof to another, because of an "IEP program" (I think because of Iep Man's (The Man's name on FB)) that I was enrolled in from when I was small. An IEP program that is meant for gifted kids. I really believed this, asking my mom seriously, "was I part of an IEP program?" And she didn't know what I was talking about. And my parents, both going to my room one day, right after I posted that "No expectations, just gratitude" or some shit FB post with Manalo's email saying it's the best he's ever read that year. My mom saying that I'll be a NYT bestseller, my dad staying in my room for some moments. I don't know what they were told, how they were told, or how the whole thing transpired. Of course I'll say it's probably like, "Your daughter will receive a special reward if you let us have permission to go into your condo and get access to her stuff and journals and also we need permission to hack her laptop and phone in exchange." Special reward being code for mental torture. Slept like a log until 10PM-ish. "Slept like a log" as if logs sleep. No dreams. I have no eyebrows lol. Left one decided to go wonky in my sleep and got smudged, so had to remove it, too. No therapist can help me now. My options: 1. Do not get yourself into a mindstate that can encourage these wistful, hopeful fantasies. Songs are again, a mistake. I don't know what got into me. 2. Be ruthless about your priorities. Really take a look at what is consuming so much of your brainpower. It is precious, like spice/melange in Dune. 3. You can be a great person without a man. 4. You will not even remember him in 3-5 years. Just like Sabby. I listen to pop-punk/alt a lot and I don't even think of him anymore. Even if most of the bands I listen to are his recommendations (or Daine's?). 5. On the other hand, this is the trade-off that I willingly accepted when I got into an arts degree. Art is always personal, and I can't help but bleed all over my art. Maybe if I try to create art that has very little to do with my personal problems, I could do something that takes my mind off the pain and be productive. But the problem is, how to stay motivated? Man, I look like Whoopi Goldberg right now it's just fucking funny. Mona Lisa brows. I think I have a brain tumor but who knows?? Eureka, I HAVE FOUND IT. THE "REAL" REASON WHY I "LOVE" THE MAN. Like, it was just an unfortunately unfortunate set of circumstances. No one talked to me at all. I was really lonely and starving for attention. I didn't feel accepted and loved anywhere. So I clung to this crumb of attention he was willing to give me. And also, the fact that I kept seeing him everywhere on campus without meaning to must have done some superstimulus shit to my delusional fantasy-feeding dopamine receptors. Something irreversible. I can't fight it with logic. Just because I kept seeing him everywhere doesn't mean it's meant to be. Why would I be willing to overlook everything wrong about him if it weren't for that? What am I going to do now? I just noticed: using the word "fucking" a lot really takes away from my creativity. Yeah, I said it. You're being really uncreative and lazy. You always seem to use it when you want to be seen as funny or witty or when you want to "make a point," as if using the word strengthens or adds some color or spice to your sentences. Stop it. Same goes with "shit."