I resigned myself to the fact that the closest thing to romance I would get today was a quick, wholesome kiss from my (adorable) gay friend, who would’ve probably enjoyed the experience if I had a penis instead of a vagina.
If my mom didn’t go in my room to wake me up from my nap with a, “ZOMG what is that package doing on your desk??”, I would have never noticed that I had a package from Island Rose.
I take back whatever cynicism I used to have for this pseudo-holiday. I take back every single time I rolled my eyes at the thought of getting flowers because I’ve always found plant sex organs a terribly impractical (not to mention sexually-laden, bordering on offensive) present.
Every nerve in my body is giddy with joy. And now I can’t stop smiling. <3
My dad, on the other hand, can’t stop regretting not stealing the roses when I was sleeping because he didn’t buy my mom anything today. Ha!
Thank you, sweetheart.
The Bell Jar by Slyvia Plath is the most apt and the most dangerous book for me at this point in my life. I first read it when I was fourteen and pseudo-depressed; therefore I couldn’t appreciate it very much but I thought it’d be a clever present to give to my first boyfriend anyway. Now that I’m twenty and my teenage angst has metamorphosed into existential angst, this book is hitting me where it really hurts.
“Of course, you have another year of college left,” Jay Cee went on a little more mildly. “What do you have in mind ater you graduate?”
What I always thought I had in mind was getting some big scholarship to graduate school or a grant to study all over Europe, and then I thought I’d be a professor and write books of poems or write books of poems and be an editor of some sort. Usually I had these plans on the tip of my tongue.
“I don’t really know,” I heard myself say. I felt a deep shock, hearing myself say that, because the minute I said it, I knew it was true.
It sounded true, and I recognized it, the way you recognize some nondescript person that’s been hanging around your door for ages and then suddenly comes up and introduces himself as your real father and looks exactly like you, so you know he really is your father, and the person you thought all your life was your father is a sham.
“I don’t really know.”
There’s a lot of other things in The Bell Jar that echoes my sentiments and outlook of life at the moment, but that particular scene damn near made me jump up and scream, “THAT’S ME! THAT’S ME!” At first I entertained the thought of being a high school teacher, but do I seriously have the patience to deal with teenage girls and be some sort of wholesome role model for them? I think not. I HATE HATE HATE doing research so even if my major is geared towards that, I would really loathe having to do research for a living. I can write, I suppose, but bleh. There’s absolutely nothing I can picture myself doing for money! Except maybe the band, but I’m not betting on that to get me rich. So career-wise, I’m drawing a blank here.
My brain can’t take any more academic torture, but the thought of graduating and having to join the working class is bothering more than I’d like. It feels like from that point on, I’ll no longer be able to do what I want because I’m too busy doing things that I should so that I can get enough money to someday do what I want. I don’t even know what kind of thing it is that I should do so that I can have the resources to do what I want. If I can ever get around to doing what I should (i.e. graduate from college and get employed, ugh ugh). I hate that these days, it’s the people who sacrifice their own happiness and dreams in order to attain society’s definition of success that are most admired. But enough of these thoughts.
At long sweet last, my eBay orders finally arrived I can finally get around to stretching my lobes again. 
ZOMG what is Lauren up to now?! Why is she stretching her lobes? Is she using this to distract herself from her addiction to nicotine? Might it be the by-product of her existential angst, her anger towards the fact that credentialism is the sole means to a comfortable life today? Is she trying to make a social statement? A political statement? Is lobe stretching perhaps a young girl’s journey to spiritual enlightenment?
Unfortunately, my reasons for lobe stretching isn’t a particularly profound one. It’s not a form of “rebellion” nor is it a means to achieve some sort of zen spiritual experience. It’s not even an expression of angst. I’m doing it for the aesthetics. 
I love the way large lobes look, and you can wear the most gorgeous jewelry in them. And fine–I’ll admit that this is a form of distraction, but only because I don’t want any piercings or tattoos for now.
A brief explanation on how lobe stretching is (properly) done: there are several ways to stretch lobes, but I prefer using tapers. Tapers are made out of stainless steel or acrylic, and they’re used to stretch piercings so they may accomodate larger-sized jewelry. The size of the jewelry is called a gauge. The smaller the number gets, the larger the gauge or the hole of the piercing is. (Here is a gauge to milimeter conversion chart, just to give you an idea of how large/small sizes are.)
I hope that made sense, I’m no good at explaining things.
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