Good call

One of the reasons I lock this blog is because of my affiliation w/Hvd. Mainly, I need good recs from my colleagues and former advisors, and if any of this ever got out or I was properly identified-- well, I can kiss my med school career goodbye.

I think I wrote about this a while ago-- but there was this superhot undergrad who was really sweating me, as the kids would say. (Do kids today even say that? I'm so out of the loop.) Anyway, he'd do cute things like bring apples to my office hours and ask me for career advice(even though I later found out he is pre-law, which is completely unrelated to my field) and basically flirt the fuck out w/me.

It really took a huge amount of restraint for me not to hook up w/him, mainly because he was so cute and charming... and well, he really stroked my ego. And thank GOD I did not do anyhing stupid, because I found out yesterday that a girl in a different department was reprimanded for "inappropriately patronizing" with an undergrad! I hear through friends of mine that she just had dinner w/the sophomore, they did PG-13 things like kiss, etc, and she got in trouble. Can you imagine what would have happened if I would have done what I wanted to do?? OMG.

But I didn't not hook up w/him because I was afraid to get in trouble... mainly, I didn't want to be the laughingstock of all of his friends and I absolutely REFUSED to be classified as anything remotely related to a cougar. I always thought old chicks dating young dudes were pathetic and desperate, and no way would I have let that shame fall upon myself. So it was a pride thing more than anything else. What can I say? Sometimes my pride saves me from totally fucking up my life.

I also have to find a new place to live. My roomate decided that me not fucking him anymore is grounds for evicting me from the apartment. Oh well-- it was too good of a deal to last too long anyway.

Anon

It's so ridiculously easy to stalk someone nowadays. Even back when I was in college, if I wanted to stalk someone, I had to do it the old-fashioned way: physically following them to see where they were and where they'd go. There was no Facebook, no Myspace, no Googlemaps. I remember when I was obsessed with Steve, I actually borrowed my friend's car and followed him on his date to the Cheesecake Factory. I remember seeing him with a thick-waisted girl with curly hair. I think I waited for him in the car for 2 hours. Damn, I was so desperate back then. Actually, I'm still desperate, but I'm also lazy, which means I don't have the drive to follow anyone anymore.

But anyway, since I've broken things off(TWICE) w/Ben, I really don't want him to know where I live. I know how to be anonymous, but I wasn't thinking about any of this back when I regitered to vote. Now my address shows up on anywho.com. This really, really bothers me. It's not that I'm scared of Ben or anything like that. I don't think he'd bother coming all the way out here from CA. It's just that I firmly believe he has absolutely no right to know where I live, let alone if I'm even alive or dead. I want to be impossible to find. I'd pay someone like a few hundred bucks to erase online traces of me.

I really want to un-register to vote, if I can do such a thing.

Oh, the Hamptons thing. Well, I did find a bikini at TJ Maxx for $9.99, and it looks pretty cute. I believe I purchased it thinking I was going. But the past two times I've been to the Hamptons(Amagansett, South Hampton), I've had a miserable time. It's chockful of Eurotrash and girls who think Juicy is couture. Don't get me wrong, I love pretentious people, but I like my pretensiousness with a degree of solemness and fake dignity, not outright "LOOK AT ME!" coolness. It really irritated me. Plus, everything is so stupifyingly expensive, and I don't want to live on crackers the entire time I'm there. I'm going with Elizabeth, which means I'll have to pay for the incidentals myself. If I was going with a dude, that would be a different story. I wouldn't care how expensive anything was. But a dinner out in Amagansett could mean $100 tab share for just one meal, and I clearly cannot afford that. I think Elizabeth has enough social tact to not put me in such situations in the first place, but talking about money and dealing with money amongst friends is so uncomfortable for me. So that's why I kind of didn't want to go.

Yeah, and the Hamptons really are not that big of a deal. The nightclubs are stupid and have long lines. Last summer, they had TOPLESS dancers dancing in front of everyone. This was at a supposedly high-end club, mind you. We were not at a titty bar. It was so gross. Plus, all the guys wear too much hair gel and pop open their collars like they rule. The Eurotrash contingency really kind of ruins any ambience there may be at the Hamptons.

Off topic, I've been propositioned for a 3some once again by one of my exes. What am I, the go to chick for 3somes?? I don't take offense at this, but I really do feel slighted when the chick in the participating party is severely unattractive. This is the same ex who asked for the same thing a year ago. And two years ago. Both times, he really insulted me.

Also overrated as the Hamptons-- 3somes. I mean, when I first got into it, I was like WHOOO! This is rad. But it's like, even that shit gets old after a while. I've only ever had FMF, so I don't know how MFM will feel like. Maybe it'll turn my entire world upside down and inside out with pure pleasure. Who knows.

OK, I have to go to the gym. I ate way too much today.

None

I deserve a fucking medal for not killing my mother yet.

Whenever my life starts to improve even the slightest bit-- I can always count on my mother to swoop in and shit all over it. She can't read anything beyond middle-school level, but her one incomprable talent is her timing. She knows exactly when to berate me and sink my self-esteem for maximum impact.

I finally realized why she is such a bitch to me. It's because(and I say this without any conceit, I'm really just stating the facts here) I am prettier than her and I am smarter and much more educated than she is. Oh, and let's not forget my superhuman ability to elude the fat gene she passed onto me. I have managed to stay below a 100 lbs for the majority of my life, through sheer dogged anoerexing and discipline. And she can't fucking stand it.

And her bitterness is something I can't understand. If I had a daughter, I would hope she's prettier than me, smarter than me-- hell, I hope she bypasses the majority of my genes and takes on all of her father's. I want her to be better than me. This is Darwinian, how the survival of our species works. The medical definition of genetic fitness is prognosis for future progeny that is more viable and more advantageous than the filial generation.

But all of this is completely lost on my mother. She is the queen of passive-aggression, and one of her favorite pasttimes is calling me and leaving me these thinly-veiled insults in my voicemail.

I scare myself when I hate my own mother this much. I really have tried, especially these past couple of months, to really forge some kind of relationship with her. But I can't. I'm talking about someone who actually resents me for being better than her. And I can't fucking help it! It took a crazy amount of effort and persistence for me to get out of her trailer park world, and everything I have today, I have because I made it or I got it myself. She hasn't done jack shit for me or my well-being.

Ugh, I hate how this entry has turned into something all about my mother. Sorry.

Yesterday on Newbury Street, I was waiting for Elizabeth so we could have lunch together, and a shady looking guy came up to me and told me he wanted to photograph me. Oh, pukey puke. He gave me his card and even a link to his portfolio, but jesus, if I wanted to be gratuitously naked, I needn't look further than my own apartment, as my own roomie is one of those so called professional
"photographers." But he wants to pay me $100 an hour for me to pose, so I'm thinking about it. I have to talk to my roomate about it first, maybe I can talk him into paying me more.

Anyway, Elizabeth and I are slowly rekindling our friendship. It's weird, because I really looked up to her and she sort of cut me out of her life without telling me what I did to offend her. She still hasn't told me, and I haven't bothered asking, but she was sweet when I saw her yesterday and this weekend she is coming over with last season's stuff she doesn't want. Nothing better than free clothes.

She also invited me to go to East Hampton with her next weekend. I really want to go, but I'm embarassed at not having a decent bikini. What a stupid reason for not wanting to go to the Hamptons, right? I'll probably go, even if I have to wear a $19.99 one piece from Target.

Overdue

A thousand apologies for my absence. But the good news is, I'm alive. Ha.

I've been having some... blogger's block? It's more like serious depression that makes you think everything you do is stupid, even some meaningless little blog like only 10 people read. I know I reneged on my promise to write short entries more often, but when you feel like shit and kind of want to shoot yourself(again), the last thing you feel like doing is talk about how shitty your life is.

So there's that.

Whenever I get depressed over something, it's usually over something I can't do anything about. These days I've been depressed about my age, how old and soon-to-be-saggy I am becoming. I know, the stupidest thing to get depressed over, I know this. I recognize this. But my speciality is finding misery in even the most natural things, so it's age I've chosen this time around.

I know that probably in 10 or even in 5 years, I'll look back and think, Goddamn, why the fuck was I depressed when I was still relatively hot and still in my 20's? I've been trying to think of what Catherine in X years would tell Catherine at age 28 to do. She would probably tell her to stop being a whiny little bitch and to get her shit together. It worked for a day, but now I'm back to being depressed again.

But mostly I think it's because of my self-enforced celibacy that I've been doing. It's not even really celibacy as it is more... isolation from mankind, really. I go all day and sometimes 4 or 5 days without talking to anyone. Me, the approach-men-at-Hvd-bookstore-and-beg-them-to-fuck-me girl, I'm afraid to talk to men. Sometimes I'll catch one looking at me and I'll become vaguely ill, like a slight reflux thing that I get whenever I look at seafood(I hate seafood). I don't know what caused this, but I think the whole thing with Ben has somewhat traumatized me and--oh, yes--let's not forget that I tried to shoot my brains out not too long ago.

Speaking of which, I might as well get it over with and talk about how I did that. I've been putting it off because I felt so idiotic thinking about my FAILED attempt at offing myself, but it's kind of funny and the sheer dumbassery of it all is nothing if not amusing. So.

Anyway, where I last left off, I had come back from my dead brother's pad, where I found a gun underneath his bed and I FedExed it to myself. You know how some people prepare for hurricanes by stocking cans of food? Well, I knew that one day, possibly one day very soon, I'd be wanting a gun to use on myself. So many times I've said, "God, I wish I had a gun," and I never had access to one. I felt like a macabre kid on Christmas Eve, she of this shady gun that her druggie brother had persumably used once upon a time.

So I got back to Boston and my roomate had signed for the package for me. He was like, "WTF is in that? It's so damn heavy!" I didn't tell him, of course. I never told anyone.

Fast forward to May. I'm feeling like shit, like the world is collasping upon me, I'm such a victim of my self-hatred, blah blah. I drink half a bottle of Scotch, drunk dial the med student I met at the bookstore, feel dejected about everything. You think I'm sad when I'm sober, wait until you see me drunk. It's like Elliot Smith mixed with Edgar Allen Poe crossed with Emily Dickinson X 100. The med student was busy and said he couldn't see me, and that pushed me over the edge.

At this point, I started to get incredibly hopeless about everything. You know how dramatic I am, how I make everything out to be either a zero or a thousand. There is no in between, not ever. It spiraled into something drunk, black, and sinister, and I thought: Shit, I have a gun. I can finally do what I've only been thinking about doing all these years.

To understand what happened next, you must understand my experience with guns: I had none. I had never shot a gun, never cocked it, never aimed it. I could barely identify one. But being the drunken sad, idiotic D. Baggerson that I was, I decided that would not deter me. I promoptly found my gun, found the bullets, and proceeded to Google to learn how to load the bullets to properly kill myself.

The next thing I know, the gun is loaded. I stared at it for a while, crying my eyes out, wanting someone to stop me, maybe. But I didn't tell anyone, so of course, no one could. I then started to think a little through my Scotch-soaked brain: If I shoot myself, there will surely be a bloody mess. I don't want my roomate to be responsible for my bloody body/mess. I should do this in a way that will be least messy, as to spare my roomate the horror of cleaning it all up.

My moments of thoughtfulness manifest themselves in the oddest of moments.

So I took the gun and went into the bathroom. Checked my face in the mirror-- I remember thinking, God, I look so sloppy. Then I laughed a little to myself at how ridiculous I was being-- I was going to die, it didn't matter, duh. I turned off the lights, as I thought a proper death would go nicely with total lack of light. I climbed into the bathtub, tried to lie still, aimed the gun near my head. My reasoning for not aiming directly at my head was that I didn't want headbits to explode everywhere. I wanted a death Mr Clean would approve of. So I aimed near what I thought was my head, anyway. When I pulled the trigger, I heard a loud noise and then I felt nothing for what seemed like an eternity. This ether, this halfway point between death and life-- it was hell. I couldn't move.

Only minutes passed and I felt this throbbing pain and a dull pain in my arm. I had turned all the lights off in the bathroom so it was completely dark, but I felt something slimy and liquidy dripping on my body. Oh, and it was warm, like someone was dipping me in a warm bath. It took me only the next few seconds to realize that I was still alive. I failed.

By this point, I realized what a shitty shitty situation I've thrown myself into. If anyone found out, I knew that I would be locked up instantly. Perhaps what I fear most next to being fat is the thought of being locked up, losing my freedom, being locked up in a mental ward(which has actually happened to me once, but that's another story for another time). The pain in my arm became unbearable, but it was almost euphoric. I can't really describe it.

I couldn't get up from the bathtub, and I couldn't turn on the light. Then I heard my roomate yelling something, and I don't remember what happened next. He called an ambulance, they carried me on a stretcher, and I woke up en route to the hospital. The EMT was like, "What happened?" Immediately I knew I had to come up with something feasible rather than "I tried to kill myself," so I said, "I was playing with a gun and I shot myself by accident." I also saw, from the corner of my eye, what I had done: I shot myself in the upper arm. I missed my head. I now had what looked like a spurting, squirting blood fountain with an arm attached to it on my body. I promptly passed out again, and I woke up in the ER later with the doctor asking me how he could reach my parents.

This is how the facts of my life convinced the good folks at the ER that my shooting was "an accident":

1)I was a Hvd grad student
2)I had my preppiest clothes on-- Earl Jeans and a DVF top. Mind you, I was wearing heels during the entire process, until someone in the ambulance took them off for me. Vanity trails me everywhere, as you can clearly see.
3)My aim was bad, SO BAD, so unbelievably bad, that no one would have guessed I was aiming for my head. This is probably where being a drunken asshole saved me, because had I been sober, I most definitely would have aimed well enough to do something detrimental in the cephalization area. What would have actually happened is my wake up in the middle of the night with terror- kind of nightmare: I would have probably rendered maybe half of my brain useless, and I would be wearing a diaper and dictating this with one of those breathing/typing machines that quadrapelegic people use, in the manner of Stephen Hawking.
4)Again: I was drunk. What do drunk kids do when they get drunk? Apparently play with guns and get hurt. Believable enough for the ER doctors at the best hospital in America(Mass Gen).

What no one tells you when you're watching people do it all the time on TV and in the movies, is that shooting a gun is much, much harder than it looks. It's not point and shoot. There's backward momentum and Newton's third force action-reaction pair to reckon with. It is fucking hard. It takes coordination and kinesthetic awareness.

Anyway, that's enough typing for tonight. As a result of my suicide attempt, I should mention that I can't quite bend my elbow or contract my bicep without getting some sharp pains. They told me I had to start physical therapy, but guess what-- my school insurance doesn't really cover it, and I thought physical therapy was kind of for losers. I am wrong about the latter conclusion. I should look into getting some therapy, for both my arm and the contents of my head.

Will write more later. It's really aching.