Find your inner random object! by Emily

I think that should work. If not go here: What's your random object? If you're cool like me, you'll get this boy with glasses. *growls*
Maybe Llew was right... Maybe I should wear my glasses more often.

I Just Don't Get It!
If I thought all the various shit that has happened to me had a reason or a point, I could deal so much more easily. Right now, it just seems like sorrow upon sorrow drops on my shoulders like rain, and with as much logic. I wish I could explain how frustrated it makes me or how sad or how confused.
I feel like I'm five or six...things happen and I don't know why or how and there's nothing I can do.'Cept when I was little, I always knew there was a reason that I could find out if I tried enough.
(It's raining because a cold front met a warm front out beyond Hatteras and the heat from the warm front gave the water in the cold front the energy to condense and the prevaling winds blew onto shore...)
Doesn't work too well, now.
I have a friend -- she's Catholic, which is worth noting -- who says it much easier to be an athiest. She says they get to believe whatever they want. I tried to explain to her that, it's much more difficult to build up a coherent world view and system of morality and justify it than to blind buy into catholic dogma. Good little Catholic girl she is, she doesn't even question what's given to her. (She doesn't practice either and doesn't really believe in catholicism, so I think she's on really weak ground here...)
Point: I wish I could blithely say "God's in charge and there's a plan." I come close, I've got the idea that things will work out, and I try to hope that, but it'd sure be easier if I thought there was A Point.
Also, I always thought being unemployed would be easy and carefree. It's not. Every minute, I'm toting up a) what I'm not making and b) what I'm spending. (I would have earned $50 at Elmo's today... I spent $3.50 on cookies and a Diet Coke)
The end of the month is coming and if I don't get a roommate, I don't know what I'll do. I know I won't even attempt to pay bills.

I meant to mention this earlier... Last week on Harvey Birdman, Attorney at Law (on Adult Swim, on Cartoon Network on Sunday nights: great TV!) the lawyer for the prosecution was reading American Dramaturgy! Of course, he was also a flaming gay send-up.
Which is odd, because no dramaturg I know is gay.
That was another reason I am all down: I spent a few minutes looking at grad schools today. The only people with dramaturgy programs were Ivy League schools: Yale, Harvard, Columbia, Brandeis, NYU. Utterly pointless to look at them, really: I couldn't even afford to apply for them. As if they'd let me in.
And no, No, NO, NO! I will not explain what a dramaturg is, dammit. It's what I want to be. Go here instead.

That's another thing wrong with me. I use old books and plays to relate to the world. Like right now, I feel like a character in Eugene O'Neill. (Long Days Journey Into Night, incidentally.) And of course, No-one knows what I'm talking about.
Oh yeah? Titus. Great movie, directed by Julie Taymor, who did The Lion King play. Which is more significant: Taymor's use of imagery or her manipulation of the original text?
And can anybody use the original text with a straight face, really? I mean, it's so bad there were critics who said it had to be a parody. (Probably not: it's probably the first play of somebody who had to write in popular, though awful, genre.)
Is death/bad end of the protaganist a given in a classical tragedy? Does it change anything substanial if Dr Faustus snuffs it in the first scene?
Why do people keep going to travesties written by Andrew Lloyd Webber (let's face it: he's a fuckin Bond Villian, not a hack) or Stephen Sondhiem? Why does the bourgoisie insist that not only is legitimate theatre, but is the apex of the theatrical art? (Wagnerian gesamptkework notwithstanding)
Umm... sorry.

On a related tangent: last night, I saw the web page for the Noel Coward Society. I would soo love to be in that (They even have a test you have to pass to be a member -- I can't even imagine...) but it costs 25 pounds.
On a tangent to that... If I had money to blow, I'd call a phone sex line (one that advertises "We'll talk about anything you want..) and talk philosophy. "Baby, tell me what you think about Kant." "I want to lick you all over..." "Hegele, baby. Are you self-actualized?"
Hey, it'd be my money.

It's (slowly) beginning to get cool and rainy. Hurrah... I want to walk in the rain, late at night, alone under sodium lamps.
It always makes me feel disconnected from the whole world, like a ghost. A relic.
Yeah. That's exactly the right word.
Relic.