jacktellslies: (circusfolk)
I get angry with all of the little futures that I have lost. Things change so quickly, here.

My family graduation party is today. I adore my small family and my chosen families, but my big family gets drunk and they all say terrible things to one another. They are lovely people, and interesting people, but I dislike having panic attacks. So, I must admit, I hope that they give me lots of money for my accomplishments, please. Either way, the food will really be too good. I'm not at all sure how my mother was able to afford this.

There are things I want so badly to show you, but I don't have a camera. I've never shown you my tattoo, and there are lots of new piercings in the house and will be more quite shortly. My bedroom is the best place in the world, and in it there is a brand new painting of Tilda Swinton. Her hair is the same colour as the fall, and in it she has branches for antlers. When I haven't anywhere to go, I wake up in the morning and stay in bed, staring. Her eyes are charmed. She stares back. The print was made and given to me by Daena M. Ortego, a maskmaker and artist and goblin friend of mine who lives near New Orleans. You should go and buy everything she has ever made, and want for more.
jacktellslies: (Default)
My diploma is bound in a red bookish kind of thing in a manner that would make it impossible to display, if I had a reason or a place to display it. It is off to the side on the bottom row of my bookshelf, the shelf for things that I like, but for which I don't really have a place: art books, the small collection of modern fiction that does not annoy me, books that belonged to my father that I've not read yet, a biography of Napoleon's empress Josephine, an out of date but not antique medical textbook, my diploma.

And there is a cock ring on Parker's towel, which is hanging in the shower, and which she'd intended to use in a minute. This is war. We have already put a dildo on Bill's pillow.

By the by, we never made it to the strip club, but we'd like to go tomorrow night. If you'd like to join us, you'd be welcome to stay here for the night if you needed or wanted to do so.
jacktellslies: (execution)
Graduation made me want to kill people, and, in genernal, I'm still not all that impressed with the end of college. I really wish I could have graduated with the school of arts rather than with a BS in Education. I love educators, but I think that most teachers are punks, so I felt even more separate from all of it than I already did. But I was happy with a few things: I made my mum and grandmother proud, and Ally looked cute in the silly square hat. She flashed me some metal from the bleachers when I got my diploma, too. (She just turned three a week ago.) I was completely surrounded by hot dreadlocked men and hot veiled women with hot masters degrees. And I am really quite proud of my grades. My GPA was hot. Summa cum laude, bitches.

And tonight I'm going to a strip club!

jacktellslies: (egon schiele)
Everyone has this moment, I think. I was six, and I realized that, at the very earliest, I'd be in school for the next two lifetimes. It has been almost a third since then.

I did not graduate from high school. I broke up with it. There were tears, and there was rage. My father was starting to die, so I got mad at the school for leaving me when I needed it, and for not getting it, and for going easy on me then, rather than when I'd needed it more. I suppose I got mad at the school so that I wouldn't be angry at him. I felt the proper self-satisfaction, though. I thought that I was brilliant. I wanted to live in words.

I'm graduating quite soon, and, although I'd not felt it this fully before, because I was still in it, or because this is what people who graduate do, I regret having gone to college. I must admit that I appreciate the books I've read. But my academic writing is terrible. It has gotten me wonderful grades, to be honest, but it is nothing that anyone would, or should, ever want to read. I don't feel particularly intelligent. I don't think that I deserve my grade point average. I've met a few professors whom I adore, but I think, perhaps, that I could have learned more by having had lunch with each of them a few times. And I've spent quite a lot of money on this.

I'm better than I was when I started this. But that has more to do with what I was doing when I wasn't in class, like having weird jobs, and talking to people, and reading, and teaching myself things, and traveling, and trying to make sense of all of this. I could have run away to London and made terrible choices, but I had to go to class, you see. And I earned a piece of paper that I hope I'll never have to use. Well. This is likely only a pang of regret, and not a lasting emotion. (I deny having lasting emotions, anyway.) And there is the future to which I can look. Places to go, real things to learn. But I hate busy-work, and I cannot seem to shake the feeling that I've been doing it for nearly five years. I only finished it because I'd started.

At least I managed to spite Alex. That is something.


jacktellslies: (Default)

August 2009

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