Today I wanted to remember what my life was like on this date nine years ago. I chose 2003 because I had a dream last night about architecture school, and fall 2003 was the beginning of my second year as an architecture student at what the faculty loved to refer to as "the fourth best undergraduate architecture program in the nation" (after, I think, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton). That semester was also when I first began to wonder if architecture was really the right career for me. At the time (and perhaps even now) I wanted to work in film--writing and/or directing--but I was telling everybody that I was becoming an architect in order to go into set design or production design. It was my way of doing what my dad wanted me to do (architecture) while still believing I was moving in a direction of my own choosing.
I was nineteen at the time, a little over a month from turning twenty. I felt horrible anxiety at the end of my teen years because EVERYONE in my childhood had acted like they expected me to be a great prodigy of some sort or another. If I hadn't written a novel/ shot a feature film/ saved the fucking planet by the time I was twenty, would I ever really amount to anything? This seems absurd now, but as I approach 30, I find I feel much the same about my twenties as I did then about my teens.
Below is my diary entry from October 2, 2003. As you read it, please keep in mind the following:
1) I know that this entry is ridiculous. I laughed the whole time I read it and I hope you'll do the same.
2) I abbreviated all the names to save everyone involved any embarrassment, especially myself.
3) S., L., and G. are professors (coincidentally, all female). I had and still have a great deal of respect for all three of these women, but they were demanding teachers and very much in line with the elitist aspects of a professional education.
4) At this time I shared the top floor of a Victorian house with two strangers. J. was the young man I shared a bathroom with. (The crazy landlord and his crazy common law wife/secretary lived downstairs.)
5) I am NOT bi-polar. I was nineteen and going through a difficult time socially and emotionally.
6) I DO know the words to that Jimi Hendrix song. In fact, I think I knew them then and I was just making a crappy joke.
7) I do NOT hate men/boys. I have fond memories of all the boys I mention here, none of whom I actually dated. The problem was, what I took to be intentionally cruel mixed signals (i.e. flirting with me heavily one minute, snogging some other chick the next) I now recognize as typical, unfocused, college guy horniness.
8) I cut this entry down to be slightly less insufferably long. It's still pretty long though.
9) I almost never curse this much, even in writing.
Okay, hopefully that covers it. Here's the entry:
October 2, 2003
11:02 PM
Just got back from "Confessions of a Dangerous Mind". Finally. I did not realize it was written by Charlie Kaufman until the end, but I should have known. I'd like to think that someday he might write a screenplay about my life and how pointless and ironic it is and still manage to inspire hope in the weird way that he does.
The process of becoming an architect fascinates me. Rather, the life of a young architect. This feeling hits me sometimes like I'm doing the most glamorous thing that has ever happened. I mean, fuck. It's been going on for so long. Like soldiers. Like priests. Like whores.
I'm fascinated by everything. Now. Two weeks from now I'll want to blow my fucking brains out again.
I have a big ego for hating myself. Just what I need--another reason to hate myself.
Whoa--what happened to my good mood? Here it is--tomorrow's Friday and I don't give a shit, so I'm going home!
M. was probably stupid. Booksmart, yeah--literature. But he said himself he failed a lot of math. How fucking worthless does your logical core have to be to not only not know that a square is a rhombus while a rhombus is not always a square, but to not know that that pertains to geometry? I don't give a fuck about Rabbit Run. You can fucking suck it.
F. is a bastard. When every girl you meet can't help but want to flirt with you, you're automatically a bastard. I don't give a shit if he does like me.
B. and fucking X. B.'s a fucking cowboy who gets stupid when he's drunk. X. is a bragging, lying little fuck who would sell his soul to be fucking important.
Fuck them all. Just fuck them.
I'm sick of crushes. I'm sick of wondering. I'm sick of being a stupid little fuck who can't concentrate when a hot guy walks in the room. Fuck it. Just fuck it.
I probably might (what the fuck is "probably might"? fucking pick one) be manic-depressive for real. I think "bipolar" is more offensive--it implies that you are round and portly--like a planet.
MANIC-DEPRESSIVE. Like the Jimi Hendrix song--how does it go? "Manic-depression..." sumpin'-sumpin'-sumpin'.
M. was nice. And smart. And handsome. And presumably rich. Martha's Vineyard. Martha's fucking Vineyard. Who the fuck grows up there?
IF J. IS GETTING IN THE FUCKING SHOWER I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL HIM NO ONE NEEDS three fucking showers in one day. Okay. He was just taking a piss.
I've started saying "bullshit" among my peers because there is so much of it. I also said "bitch". In reference to nevermind [sic] who. I want cake and milk. Silver fork. China plate. CAAAKE. MIIILK.
AHHNNNGGG.
Fuck it, I don't give a shit.
Fuck your Harvard, S., and your Yale, L. Fuck your fucking Bauhaus, G. I fucking hate architecture! Why do I have to fucking love it so fucking much!
I treasure the film stamp I get at the [Student] Union theatre [sic] free showings. It makes me feel like... God. Free movies are the sexiest thing ever. Honestly.
Chocolate cake. Cookie. Donut. Anything. Feed me pleeeeease.
I should go to bed.
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