So I finished The Stranger between today and yesterday, and it's got me all kinds of hecked up, like let me tell ya man, modernist folks sure wanna be something else real bad. Besides all of the thought points and reflective statements and nuggets of philosophy that will undoubtedly haunt me in my dreams ten years down the road, there rests the plain and simple fact that Meurseult is an asshole, and  now I feel like him. It's insupportable! I can't go around feeling like a remorseless asshole, now can I? That's just not done! It's quite a problem with literature, really, especially modern literature in the gritty neo-realism~ vein; every time I encounter a singularly unpleasant character, be it hero or brooding Byronic anti-hero, I end up feeling like them, and there's nothing I can do about it. I suppose that's props to the author, and demonstrates some excellent literary technique, and really, I am happy when I can get invested in a story long enough for that to happen. But like, why can it never happen with nice characters? I've spent questionable amounts of time reading Les Misérables and watching the musical and looking at art (and yes, reading fan fiction), and not once have I entered a mind-meld with any of the characters. Not even Marius, and we all know he's a dweeb of the first order! It's terrible. I feel that I would get quite a lot done if I had the revolutionary passion and fire of any of the Barricade Boys, or the grit and go-get em attitude of Javert. And don't even get me started on Valjean, man, I could probably bring about world peace or something. But no, sad indeed is my fate. I will forever doomed to share an empathy link with the denizens of the literary underworld, living out my days in pretentious melancholy and overblown monologues about the human condition. What a hand I've been dealt! This must say something about me, but I don't dare contemplate what.

On the topic of misery and the wretchedness of the human condition, may I just humbly report that life in my house is growing worse and worse every day? Every one of us is unhappy, some more than others, and this has all come home to roost on the shoulders of none other than yours truly. I feel a bit like Atlas, only I didn't even get to participate in the drama of rebelling against the elder gods, or anything like that. All I did was try to help. In that order, maybe Prometheus would be a better allegory? Shelley, help me. I need to be unbound.
Well, no, I don't, not really. Because I'm helping out, and that's the truth. I couldn't leave my poor defenseless family to bumble along by themselves, now could I? (According to our therapist, that's exactly what I'm supposed to do) It's terrible, though. These past few weeks, I've drunk vodka before going to church just to be able to handle it, and if that doesn't tell you something, I don't know what does. I would say that I'm excited to go back to school, only I don't want to leave my poor siblings all alone to deal with this.
Okay, Dad is throwing a fit and trying to demonstrate his control over all of us, so I must go and prepare dinner. Bye now!

tmi

I'm demisexual!

I've been trying to deny this for a really long time. I never thought I could be part of the ace spectrum, like no way, I'm totally allosexual, totally alloromantic. Right? I'm ashamed to say it, but I was so convinced that I was allo that I disrespected demisexuality as an identity, because the definition fitted me to a T, and since I obviously didn't fit under the ace umbrella, that couldn't be a real thing. What a problematic person I am. Okay! But now I'm learning to unlearn my problematic world views, and I'm getting to know myself as a person too. Which is so exciting! Who knows what I'll find out next?

So you see, it's okay that I'm demisexual. It's part of who I am! It's what makes up me! I still have so much to figure out, and that's okay. It's a journey, and I'm only on the first part yet.

Oh wow okay but I'm having a lot more trouble with thinking that I might be aromantic. Because I might be. Like 80% probability that I am. But I don't want to be, gosh I really don't! And I have been in love before! So maybe it's not completely like that? I have this feeling that it is, though. And that's pretty weird, to be honest. I admire people so much who can embrace everything without feeling weird about it! There's so much for me to argue against. Hmm. But man, like I said, this is a journey, and I'm going to make it. I'ma figure this out. Yes I will. Everything will be okay. 

<<optime! demi me!>>

Everything is yucky.
Just yucky.
In case that wasn't clear enough, please allow me to expand, so you can grasp the full scale of the ickiness and appreciate as I surely don't. So! To sum up, these past few weeks have been nothing short of ridiculous, as Mom and Dad work through to their separation. Well, really, only Mom is working for it. Dad is still in denial, and he takes every opportunity to try and change all of our minds about getting involved. It's not our place to do this, both morally and HIPPAA-ly, and none of us are sure that we even want to get in the middle of the storm. But this is terribly hard to explain, because Dad is unused to not getting his way about everything. Both parents are using me as a therapist, which is charming in its own way, I suppose, but I'm sadly not very excited about it (and I'm continually growing less so). How many heart-to-heart conversations can someone have in one day? I'm certainly testing my limits on that one.
Today, Dad found out about my antidepressants, and shockingly didn't yell as much as I thought he would. He's still upset with me, though, I think. What can I say? I'd rather not feel suicidal all the time, if I can possibly help it, even if I have to sell out to the evil drug companies to do it. Think of it as me doing my part to aid the economy. Mom also told him about hers (and he took it okay as well). Now I have one less secret to keep. I like that a lot better, because I'd like to think I'm an honest person, and keeping secrets (well, secrets about me) feels uncomfortable. I'd rather be open about who I am and what I'm doing. But some things can't be said out in the open, especially in this family. I think there are some things that my parents will never ever know about me.
Mom has gotten me a job over the summer, and it's decent, because I get to work from home. But it's also not so great, because she keeps giving me stacks on stacks of work, and not money. I feel a bit like the Sisyphus of the academic world. It's not even fun stuff either, like I have to do data entry on about a million surveys, and apparently, I have to write an entire textbook from one of her coworker's lecture notes and Powerpoints and stuff. Well, okay, that part does sound fun, doesn't it. And I guess it might be, but it's about pharmacy, and call me a hedonistic humanities heathen, but that just doesn't seem very exciting. Now if someone wanted me to write about the linguistic habits of pharmacists, we'd be in business. Currently, I'm also volunteering at a week-long international conference for science teachers at the university. It's surprisingly not so bad. Aside from a 29-year-old from Georgia who may or may not have been trying to flirt with me and a completely inconveniently placed School of Public Health that I had to guide people to, everything is going smoothly. There's air conditioning and free wifi and lots of free pasta, and I get to sit in on the sessions, and people are very nice to me (some excessively so, but let's not worry about that). I hardly have to work so far, and it's all a very nice and easy way of boosting Mom's connections at the university (and maybe my own, though what they will be good for is beyond me). Even so, I'll be happy when the week is over and I can go back to my ignominious life at home.
Beep is texting me now, and I'm not sure why. These boys are really persistent, aren't they? I'm honestly not even sure why. Maybe they like linguistics puns, or maybe they're just entranced by my freckles. Either way, though, they keep on coming, and they don't stop. These are probably my peak days, and in twenty years I'll be bereft of all romantic possibility. But I can't say I really mind that. There are sentences to be diagrammed, and codes to be written, and life stops for no man. These are the days to collect the stories that I can tell to the children that I won't have, and when I can no longer gather rosebuds, I'll content myself with the memories of time before it went a-flying. Hopefully, I'll be as content with that then as I am now.
I'm still not sure what to do about Beep, though.
Talia has gone off to a summer music festival for three weeks (under extreme duress, may I add), and Xander has gone with her to be an RA. It's very quiet without them practicing scales and vibrato exercises at all hours of the night, and now there's no one to rant to about Les Misérables (which I read in five days, thank you very much). But I guess it's good for them to be out of the house, and I am happy that they're doing something with their summer. Maybe they can make friends with some rich people who will take us all out to dinner or something. Can you believe it's already the middle of July? Time flies, doesn't it. Well, it does and it doesn't. But I'm pretty sure this will be the first year when I won't dread going back to school.
It's 1:16 AM, and I should probably be getting off to bed so I can make a nice early start for the conference tomorrow. But first, I think I'll read some cute Les Mis fan fiction, because you know that's how we do it here. Some of it is so good that I'd almost say it has literary merit. Anyway, have a lovely night! Vive le France!

Summertime and the Living's Not Easy

Metaphorically speaking, I'm in hell. Literally speaking, I'm also in hell, because I feel that it would be poetic justice if I were punished with living over this period of my life for all eternity. See, Mom has finally gotten tired of Dad's shit, and she's divorcing him, and he is NOT taking it well. I've never seen him this way before, and it's terrible. As always, I'm the psychotherapist for both, which is going to take a lot more alcohol than we have in the house right now. I sympathize with my mom, of course, because who wouldn't after what my dad has done, but at the same time, he is my dad, and I hate seeing him like this. He's begging all of us for a second chance, for forgiveness, and for love, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only one willing to grant that to him. But really. This is the only way to do it. We can't live this way anymore, none of us can, and this is long overdue. Still, it's making everything absolutely awful, and I don't think I'm handling things well. Sure, I look good on the outside- especially compared to Xander, who got totally violent in the therapist's office- and I'm doing a pretty good job of making sure everyone stays sober and fairly cheerful, but my head's in a whirl, and I don't know what to do. Really, it's not a big deal, because there are people whose families beat them and starve them and worse, and at the end of the day, I know my parents care about us all in their way, so we're not as badly off as we could be. But we're still not doing so well with this, and I don't like anything about my life right now. Cesar tried to text me to tell me about his problems, and I'm glad to help, but I feel like I'm probably the worst person ever to ask. Then again, though, of how many psychologists could it be said, "physician, heal thyself"? Maybe I'm right for the job after all. I'm also concerned about my siblings. Heaven knows I'd do anything to protect them, but I don't think this is something I can shield them from, and that's terrible too. Like, this is happening, and we all have to deal with it in our own way. Which, judging from Xander's behavior, I don't think we all can, at least not immediately, and that's yet another thing for me to feel bad about. Maybe I should have taken summer school in LA. No, but it's best that I'm here for this, so I can be here for anyone who needs me (which will probably be everyone). I still feel useless, though. Man, after this, I will have all the makings of a grade-A psychologist. Maybe I should change my major.