And down we go..Personal much?

I think it's safe to say I'm in a rut. Or a slump. Or whatever. Let me resume:

First of all, I feel like crap. My skin is awful, my hair is greasy, I haven't showered in two days, I feel fat, and I've chewed my nails down to stubs.

IES is worthless. It is a complete and utter waste of my time. I can't remember the last time I even listened to an interesting discussion during one of my mind-breaking, hour-and-a-half-long courses. It's torment. I would rather be at Whitman getting my ass kicked by ridiculous reading schedules and lit papers than here, banging my head against a wall for no reason. The pain is physical; I can feel myself dying as I sit in class and stare at my mocking watch-face as an eternity of suffering passes every minute. I tell myself, "Art history is fun! You like art! You find aesthetics and the artistic movements of the 19th century interesting!" And then I show up at nine A.M. on Monday and Wednesday mornings and fall asleep - that kind of guilty half-sleep where you have to keep pinching yourself, and the teacher is giving you dirty looks anyway, and all you want to do is get out of your desk and lie down on the floor and pass out.

My "Women in Conflicts" class is less painful, because the teacher is interested and occasionally interesting. However, no one speaks French, and listening to that shit for an hour and a half really is pure torture. Perhaps as a function of the language level, no one ever says anything interesting.

And then there's translation. I find it hard to care even slightly about this class, despite the fact that it would probably be the most useful for me if I did. However, it's completely useless as well. All we ever do is translate things - which in theory is fine. However, the only way I ever know whether my translation is correct is when she gives it back to me and I learn that everything is wrong. Seriously, if I just read a goddamned English-French dictionary and a grammar book cover to cover, I could skip an entire semester of torment. I don't know how people know things - I consistently get the worst grades in the class on tests and translations, despite the fact that half the class doesn't fucking speak French. Once again, I'm getting screwed by assholes who know, and play by, the rules; whereas I do shit that I think "sounds right." Well, it's been that way since 7th grade, so I don't see why things should change now.

Basically, I spend 9 hours a week in IES classes wishing I were dead. It is really difficult to explain to people (well, it's easy to explain, but I sound like a prick) that I go to a really good school, and that classes here don't interest me, that the people are unintelligent and unimaginitive, and that my brain has not been this underworked in I don't know how long. Probably ever. Thank god for Rachel and Linzy; if not for them this sea of mouth-breathing heathens would be unbearable.

And then there's my exterior courses. This is where it gets even better.

It is halfway through the semester, and I have been to exactly one of each of my classes at the ICP (Institut Catholique de Paris). I went to one "Epistemology in/of/on History" class, and one "Contemporary Art" class. History was fine; I planned on going back to that. And then it got nice out, so I haven't been in two weeks. Art History was literally the exact same class as my IES art history class. Same paintings, practically the same lecture. I was less than thrilled, and since class is cancelled every other week, I haven't been since. The problem is that I haven't been to the TD either (that's the art history class where you, I don't know, do homework and discuss things, or something). Not one time. I have no idea what's even required of me for the class. This is not a good thing, as another student, Brittany, who is in the same class, told me that three weeks ago when she introduced herself as an American student and whatnot, the TD prof was the opposite of thrilled to learn about her presence. Well, Brittany actually just said she was a huge bitch - to everyone. She had to give an oral presentation last Friday, and the professor wouldn't tell her how. She told me it did not go well.

The problem is that I think I need to, you know, actually do things for these classes if I want to get credit for them. Which, honestly, I don't really care about. It's the IES classes I need the credit from; a sociology class, an art class, and a french class. The situation is likely not a good one. I don't really know how I'm going to explain to the "dean" here that I haven't been to any of my exterior classes. I'm thinking about lying, and blaming my lack of grades on evil French profs.

Well, that's classes.

As far as Paris goes, j'en ai marre. Things go up and down, but mostly I'm sick of the weather, the people, and speaking french. Nothing interests me; I'm bored all the time. I don't know what I'm doing here. Wasting money, probably - I could be working and living here or something, but for some reason I'm in school. The French don't even take school seriously. I don't understand how they turn into human beings; there is chatter throughout every single class, and almost no one shows any interest in anything remotely scholarly. It is the land of the self-motivated; it's not like the teachers give a shit (they tell you as much). And going to the ICP, which is supposed to be better than the Sorbonne, is like being in high school (granted, I've been to two classes, so I'm no expert). I have no interest in going to classes, or doing much of anything else. I wouldn't mind eating really good food all day or something.

What really bums me out is that I have no idea what to even look forward to. The end of the semester? Then what? Back to Walla Walla, to find a job. Definitely not Colorado. Live in a house that I'll rent for a year while I struggle through classes and try to think of things to do with my life. Another semester of English and French? I don't know what to do with either. More school, I suppose. What a thrilling prospect.

I think that everyone, at some point, dreams of dropping out and being a rock star. I'm definitely there right now. Unfortunately, I don't even know how to play the guitar. Which is why I'm going to buy one at a pawn shop this summer, along with a sewing machine. I might as well teach myself some shit.

I wish I could think things into existence. I have all these fucking fantastic ideas for books, comics, operas, movies, songs, and every other thing ever. The thing is, I have no idea how to do anything. I haven't got a single useful skill. What am I supposed to do with a brain that never shuts off, and a body that won't turn on?

Speaking of which, as soon as I get back to the states I'm getting on anti-anxiety meds. There are some days I can barely even function from invisible stress, and I can't remember the last time I relaxed. Even my friends here have noticed it. I'm sure I'm terrible to be around - in an awful mood all the time, constantly bored but unwilling to do anything - I'm a peach. All I really want to do is ride motorcycles, sword fight, fly spaceships and listen to metal. You know, have adventures. Like, if I were a steampunk assassin in a dystopian victorian neo-past and got caught up in some grand, fantastical conspiracy. Or a rough-and-tumble space pilot disovering new planets and saving the universe. Or a knight. Or anything. Back in the 1840's, Baudelaire called for a portrayal of the Heroism of modern life (somehow he ended up with Delacroix, who, while suitably romantic [read: epic], was hardly a portrayor of the vie quotidienne. There's a definite disconnect between Baudelaire's later poetry and his continued championing of Delacroix. I suppose his endorsement of Constantin Guys does something to remedy that, but Guys wasn't all that heroic. But none of that's neither here nor there), and I think that's what I'm looking for. There's no romance in life any more; no heroism, no grandeur. Nietszhe killed god, and the Author was dead by the seventies. What else is left? I know I'm not supposed to complain about the lack of the sacred, but then where do you turn for refuge? I don't know if any of this will ever make any sense to anyone else, but that's alright. There's no mysticism. All the corners of the map have been filled in. There's no excitement. I haven't been excited for anything in ages. I think people mistake excitement for anxiety. Either that, or I have way more problems than I thought I did.

This is why I don't think I should be allowed to read or watch anything, or even listen to music, because inevitably I end up comparing my life to fictions. Like, I couldn't sleep tonight (probably because I slept from ten in the morning to six thirty at night. Now it's six AM, and no signs of crashing), and so I stayed up and thought. That can't be healthy. I'm tempted to reference Baudelaire again, and wander out into the pre-dawn rain looking for the fleurs du mal. I'm always lured by the thought of taking on a second personality that only comes out at night - like Jekyll and Hyde. I want to go out and be evil. Not street-thug evil, more like passively evil - Not helping old ladies, picking up people's dropped items and keeping them for myself, not reporting thefts. You know, being evil in the Silent Observer's capacity.

Maybe I'll go into the sewers and look for the elder gods; try to get involved in the arcane arts and summon a demon. Stumble into a cult meeting and fight off mindless hordes with a manhole cover. Really, I'm up for anything at this point. I play out bizarre daydreams in my head almost constantly ; I zone out on the phone and even in the middle of conversations.

Something else I'd like to mention: I am constantly terrified of/thinking about knife fights and getting stabbed. I think I've mentioned this before. It's not really even a fear, it's more of an expectation. I lie awake in bed and image what I would do if someone attacked me with a knife. When I'm walking around at night, I'm always expecting that someone's going to come at me with a dagger.

On what I hope is a final note, I hate accordions. What I hate even more is when people play them directly in my ears while I'm on the metro, and then want me to give them money. They should be giving me money for putting up with their shit. Seriously, I don't even care if they're the fucking Mozart of the accordion, I can't stand it.