(Minor) Journalistic Crimes

You may or may not know that my most oft-used news source is the BBC— because I'm an anglophile, and they cover a large part of the world, and they always have the amusing stories at the right-hand side of the page. The classic one I cite is the big news that Romans committed the "fashion crime" of wearing socks under their sandals— so imagine my surprise when a very similar article showed up this evening.

News must be slow— or else they are not doing a particularly thorough search of their morgue. A good journalist would have done some research and found out that the same angle (and jokes) had already been used.

Words Will Never Fail Me

You know, I'm a pretty screwed up human being. We all are, I know—especially those who keep blogs—but since we're airing what's wrong with us, I thought I'd share some ponderings. I'm clinically depressed, chronically anxious, and an incorrigible perfectionist. When one trait is exacerbated by circumstance (housing stress, fights with boyfriend, final papers), the others all come out too. So, I'm sorry. I know I'm hard to love.

One of my more distressing traits is my perfectionism. It appears to be selective— ask mom to compare the care I took color-coordinating the table settings to the care I took combing my hair when I was a little girl. I once threw a fit in David's presence because I was frustrated with the organization of the books on my bookshelf— I couldn't get them to look right. I will become so concerned with having the perfect introduction to an essay, or so afraid that it will be poorly written, I won't start until the night before it's due... if not the day it's due. I want a perfect body, a perfect GPA, and a perfect filing system. And a kitchen that is always spotlessly clean.

The problem is, of course, that I can't have this. So I spend so much time on my work that the state of my room makes me want to cry. I haven't folded laundry in weeks, papers are everywhere, and I can't use my desk. I eat to comfort myself. Food makes me guilty. I pick at my face nervously, trying to destroy any blemishes—in the process, of course, creating worse ones. I get jealous and judgemental of girls that I think are prettier than I am—and always have to bring it up in confession.

I'm too much of a perfectionist to write poetry anymore.

I procrastinate by looking at ways to make my life more efficient and get more things done. I can't keep a steady pace of work— so I exhaust myself with the push, and then loose time when I'm exhausted.

And to top it all off (and I know Patrick is going to be made fun of for this), I think my Biological Clock is ticking (Shut Up, Paul). I had a long conversation with Diana (more on her later) about endometriosis, and the only real result was me desperately wanting children before it is too late for me to have them. I want to be a mom so terribly much.