That's the title she has decided on.
This is real.
I will note here that I do have strong opinions. I am not going to sugar coat anything. I never have. Not that my journal is all grim stuff - at least I try not to make it all bloody grim, which isn't easy a lot of the time for your average girl who could be her own chapter in the DSM-IV.
This is from her profile.
She wants you to know she has mental conditions and Christ help you she will remind you of this constantly.
I freely admit to being stubborn, strong willed, hot-tempered, irritable, emotional, self-loathing, hypersensitive, shy, and socially awkward. But the medication and therapy are helping.
Helping to turn you into a passive pooft, maybe.
Pooft. There's a term no American should ever use, I apologize.
I guess I thought she was British for a while but then I noticed she's from New York so I decided to throw out that I, also, know British slang.
Are you more of an optimist or a pessimist?
Today's writer's block.
Please. I think you all know the answer to this.
The reason I chose this blog was because of the level of presumption in this sentence.
WHY YES, RAFAELA. I KNOW VERY WELL YOUR STANCE ON THIS.
What is your computer wallpaper right now?
THE HARD HITTING WRITER'S BLOCKS
No currently it is this image:
At the moment, it's the image in my icon: Benedict Cumberbatch, as Sherlock Holmes, holding his violin. Mmmm...violinists.
I think we have a clear winner in "who has the cooler wallpaper" contest.
What's the last thing you bought?
Uh--
Err--
Paint?
That was so long ago.
Cigarettes. What? Y'all already know I smoke.
Oh yes, we all know you smoke.
All of us. Everyone in the fucking world knows that "Anna" (I know I called her Rafaela earlier but that's her user name for reasons I cannot even attempt to guess) is a smoker.
Though I have cut down considerably of late (I can't smoke in my flat, and it's fucking freezing outside).
Your apartment.
You are a Jew living in New York. Knock the British shit off.
Non-smokers, please no preaching about my filthy habit.
Number of comments: 0.
Either she headed that off successfully or, as I suspect, no one gives a fuck.
Of course a man such as myself who is interested almost exclusively in DBGs and DYGs can't be too picky about smoking or no because when it comes to them yellow girls especially the odds she's a smoker increase.
My mom has asked me to post this. Feel free to link, share, etc. This is a message Mom has been trying to get to Occupy Wall Street. She is homebound and vision impaired, and cannot get to rallies nor can she get on the computer. So please, pass it on!
I will do my part to pass this on.
I'm sure whatever it is will be great~
Here are TEARS.
... With my psychology hat on, I question the wisdom of reducing the message of your entire movement to the acronym TEARS.
We are here to bring TEARS.
Not quite the image you want to be putting into peoples' heads, I don't think.
THERE WILL BE MUCH SORROW AND GNASHING OF THE TEETH.
Tax the wealthy.
The wealthy are taxed.
Whether or not they're taxed enough is another issue, but they do, in fact, pay taxes.
This is why this movement is doomed to fail. SPECIFICS, PEOPLE. If you just say shit like this then any smug asshole like me can say "well actually they do pay taxes" and you just look like a massive twat. It doesn't matter if what you meant is they should be taxed more because you didn't say that.
End corporate welfare and loopholes.
I'd like to take a timeout to say every time I copy something from her blog it changes my font so I have to copy and paste everything she says into Notepad first before recopying it and pasting it here.
This extra step is really starting to bring my piss to a boil.
Accountability for banks.
What kind of accountability?
I'll agree should a bank pull the shit they've been pulling this past 800 years their leadership should be executed but I don't think you'd agree with me.
Or maybe you would, I don't know.
All I know is "accountability" can mean anything from fines to jail time to my suggestion, death.
Repeal for revenue marijuana prohibition.
That statement doesn't even make grammatical sense and has nothing at all to do with the current economic situation.
Was this just added because you needed something that started with an R?
Also tacking on shit like that really makes it seem like you don't have a firm grasp on reality.
What does pot have to do with the bankers being crooks?
Are they secretly laundering drug money (which I'm sure pot isn't the biggest narcotics market in the US)?
Save our country!
That doesn't even say anything. That'd be like saying LAND ON MARS! with no real suggestion at how to achieve that. You're protesting but you don't seem to have an actual plan or better suggestion for how to conduct business.
So of your acronym, they're already doing T, E is actually a good idea, A is too vague to mean anything, and R and S are complete bullshit.
Good mission plan, guys.
Seriously, what's the implication with S? The bankers are like Sinestro and Lex Luthor plotting the downfall of the human race? I wish that were the case because then you could just march in like the goddamn Batman and beat the fuck out of them but no, it's human rights this and ethics that.
Day treatment is day treatment, forever and ever unto infinity. There is a young man there who insists on proselytizing - but only the men. Which explains why he's left me alone. I would expect that a self-described socialist, feminist Jewish bitch on wheels would be a tempting target, but no, he hasn't said a word to me on the subject.
Later in another post I doubt seriously we'll be reaching she questions why she can't find a boyfriend.
Gee, I don't know, maybe it has something to do with the self-described "bitch on wheels" bit?
Also not that I'm against feminism but I imagine your particular brand of feminism isn't really feminism and it's just subtly rebranded pussy sensitivity that would grate almost immediately.
That talk with Dick probably deserves an entry of its own, but I haven't the time. Basically, he says I do not communicate well with people. He cited the concerns of Dr. Morris about how I use verbal fencing and a hurricane of witticisms and jokes to conceal my real feelings, and his own observation that I use my casual knowledge of literature, languages, history, and most other liberal arts as a barrier to people.
I love verbal fencing with smug assholes like you.
But I have to win almost immediately because I get bored pretty quick.
"Hurricane of witticisms" is pretty much the easiest technique to outdo, too, because literally all you have to do is one up them and they're stuck.
ALL SOUND AND NO FURY.
He then cited the most recent group, wherein I quoted Shakespeare twice, Yeats once, and Jean-Paul Sartre in the original. I said rather snidely that he didn't seem to have a problem understanding what I meant. He then asked just how lonely I wanted to be, as that would be the inevitable consequence of my witticisms and allusions - distancing people.
Just distances you from the assholes, maybe.
I do hate people that feel like they have something to prove by litfagging it up constantly. I remember in a debate I actually told someone to calm down and reminded him we're in a 500 level English class and we've all read The Tempest.
Sure shut him up, anyway.
ADULTS ARE TALKING STOP TRYING TO IMPRESS US.
Also, he invoked Freud, saying that I'd learned to do this as a child as a way to feel good about myself.
That's a pretty legit point to make, too. Who does this that doesn't just want to feel good about themselves?
I then accused him of invoking Freud just to piss me off, as he damn well knows that I think Freud was full of shit. He smiled and said, "Got your attention, though."
Damn him. And his little Freud action figure - they deserve each other.
Thanks a lot, Dick.
I think you and Anna are right for each other.
So someone asked me about my novel. What was it. I told him, and he reacted with disbelief. Why would someone like me write something like that?
Money, I told him. He was shocked. Never Mind Literary Greatness, Here's The Filthy Lucre.
Only a shitty writer would have to choose between greatness and money.
I think this novel will sell. I enjoy writing, sure. I also enjoy eating. And vacations. And nice clothes, Doctor Who DVDs, cigarettes, music, nifty gadgets...well, you know. All things money can buy.
But! I intend to make money at it. So I'm writing something I think people will like to read. Is that a fucking crime or something?
No but it sure seems like an easy way to deflect blame when you write a bunch of fucking crap for the Twilight crowd.
"Well it sold well but I was only looking to write a bestseller."
How important is physical attraction in selecting a romantic partner?
Very and anyone who says otherwise is lying.
Well, now, what causes physical attraction? For me, it's so much more than looks. It's big things - intellect, charm, sense of humor.
Physical, as in, relating to the body and not the mind.
You're full of shit.
Oh boy, here's a teaser of her novel.
I AM PREPARED TO BE WOWED.
One way or another. Invariably the other.
Livia checked her watch - a chunky man's watch, expensive, a birthday gift from her twin. Fifteen minutes until the end of office hours. She felt the distinctive beginnings of a nic fit, but held her peace. There was one more research proposal with annotated bibliography that she had to hand back for her Renaissance Italy class.
Oh, a sassy liberal arts girl who smokes.
Not the author at all, this is LEEEEEEvia.
This is such a beginner's trap for authors. "Well they say write what you know and who do I know better than me?"
Yeah except you're a boring slob with a Livejournal who thinks fanfiction is a good idea. This isn't top selling material.
Arthur Mendes, said the neatly typed name on the cover sheet. He was not unknown to her - he had taken her High Middle Ages class the previous semester. A senior, set to graduate in May. Odd that he was taking yet another class from her - he wasn't even a history major, but an English major with, apparently, some electives to burn. For all that he was a pretty good student - he had gotten an A minus in the High Middle Ages class, the minus due only because he had missed two weeks worth of class due to illness - mono, she recalled.
The fuck?
What's happening?
I guess she's a professor--
Also you can't take off points for missing class for an illness if he has a note from a doctor.
Fuckin' laws and shit.
She turned to her computer and checked her email. Faculty meeting tomorrow, a request for her review of a textbook, a brief note from Ella - God, how old was she now, eighteen years old, a student majoring in music - asking to meet her at services Friday night. She decided that the textbook could damn well wait until tomorrow, and replied to Ella, equally briefly, saying she'd meet her at the synagogue, and why didn't they have a drink afterward. Ella, like Livia, was not a heavy drinker, but did have a fondness for good beer. She wasn't 21, but hell, Livia's parents had allowed her as well as her twin brother to drink in moderation from the age of thirteen. Livia saw no harm in it.
OH MY FUCKING CHRIST.
There's a very real difference between exposition and storytelling and I don't think you've learned that in your "accumulated 33 years of wisdom" (her quote, not mine).
Ten minutes left. God, I could really use a cigarette now. She patted the pack in her skirt pocket. Not long now. She picked up Arthur's proposal and bibliography. She had already marked it - it was good, focused, terse.
Good, focused and terse?
So, the exact opposite of this?
Holy fuck what follows is more dialogue than I think I've ever written in my entire fucking life.
"What language is that?"
"Hungarian. Useful for cursing. You can curse the air blue for twenty minutes and not even repeat yourself."
"Where did you learn that?"
"I grew up speaking it. My father's parents are from Hungary."
"Oh. I thought -"
"Yes?"
He blushed. "You - your accent. It's hard to pin down. Kind of European, but you use some British idioms. I thought you might be from Europe."
Yeah the Brit slang is because she's a pretentious twat.
Stick with me, Arthur. We're going places.
She laughed. "No, no. I was born and raised in this very city. My mother's parents are from Poland, my father's parents from Hungary, and I learned languages from a young age. I don't have one mother tongue - we spoke Polish, Yiddish, Hungarian, and English in my home. And my husband was a Brit, so I picked up idioms from him."
"Your husband? You -"
"I'm a widow," she said, her tone somber.
This is all very interesting.
I really care about this character and her plight.
"The book," he said hastily.
Yes. Please, let's move this mess forward.
"Ah, you're in luck. I don't have to arrange an interlibrary loan." She stood up and stretched, and looked at her watch. Time for office hours to be over. She shrugged on her own overcoat over her green turtleneck, long denim skirt, and cable-knit navy-blue cardigan.
You can tell whether the author is a man or a woman almost without fail based on the time spent describing articles of clothing.
You think I'm fucking joking but try it sometime.
She hefted her purse over one shoulder, stuffed a manila folder full of blue books to mark from her Western Civ class into her briefcase, and went to the small bookcase kitty-corner
Kitty-corner.
Such a northern expression.
"No, I've been legal to drink for awhile. I'm older than I look."
"Really, now." He had followed her into the elevator, and they were heading down.
"I'm 28," he said.
Livia was a little surprised. He was older than she was. Suddenly she felt like a little girl. Ridiculous, she scolded herself.
God I hate this.
It is really difficult to put into words exactly how shit this writing is. It just sits there. Nothing creates an image in my head. The language is just so matter-of-fact. It's like it's a chore she's getting through and that's exactly how it feels.
Dear Gentlemen,
I want you to understand something about me, and about my feminism.
No.
Man, fuck.
What the hell is wrong with people?
Welp, I'm off.
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