So the short of it is: my grandmother has cancer, and I feel like I'm being censored in my own fucking house.

Elaboration:

A few weeks ago, it was discovered that my grandmother had a mass on her liver. The biopsy confirmed that it was not native hepatic tissue; it metastasized from somewhere else. I want to go to her appointment since I'm practically the only one in my family who fluently speaks biomedical science, but I might have to miss it because of my grad seminar. I could miss it, but that would mean being absent from class twice in a row, which is a pretty big deal if the class meets only once a week. Hopefully my dad and my aunts and uncles will be able to understand everything at the appointment, and if anyone has any questions, they can come to me.

Another stressor: my cousin's fiance is here. He seems like a nice guy and I don't want to sound like he's not welcome here, because he is. But I hate having to tiptoe around every single negative emotion, to stifle every expression of dissent because my mom wants to create an air of... fucked if I know what. If he's going to be part of the household for an extended period of time, he'll eventually come to know that not everything is fucking sunshine and fucking flowers.

So now I'm walking around the house holding my tongue and it's stewing inside of me. And I feel a little bad because I'm so preoccupied with NOT seeming angry that I probably appear indifferent or even hostile to his presence. I'm fucking tired of feeling like I can't be myself in my own fucking home when that's the one place in the world where you're supposed to feel like you can say or do anything regardless of whether you do that in any other social situation. I'm supposed to be free to express myself here. What the fuck?

So yeah. Got work to do and all of this to contend with and so generally I'm not a happy camper. Plus, it's raining and everyone on the roads is fucking retarded when it rains. Makes pretty much everything THAT much worse.

GODFUCKINGDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMIT!

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I hereby proclaim this weekend "Catch-up Weekend," during which I will catch up on calculus and anthropology assignments, read an ethnography, write a paper and prepare a short presentation on said ethnography, study for my calculus midterm, read and annotate 6 signal transduction papers for my seminar, and send off my tax return (yay refund!).

Of course, all of this is complicated by the fact that my cousin's fiance from the Philippines is coming to live with us starting today, and that my friend from Alaska (whom we've aptly named "Alaska") is going to be down here this weekend, and I would very much like to see her on Saturday in San Francisco for at least a short while.

Am I missing anything? Hm. If I am, I'm sure I'll just fall down and die. So if I never post again, you'll know what happened...

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So skipping class to catch up on work doesn't seem to be the brightest solution, but it's the only one I can think of that doesn't involve me sleeping for 3 hours a night.

Generally, it wasn't an issue before. (There were many instances where I cited the fact that I needed to catch up as an excuse for cutting class, but generally, I did so because I was exhausted.) Living at a residential college where all I had to do was wake up and walk to class in my pajamas didn't exactly require much sleep. Hell, I wouldn't care that much if I was responsible for my own safety while driving from place to place on a little bit of sleep. What the fuck do I care about the nameless, faceless masses that join me on the highway every day? I'd feel bad if I got into an accident, but the thought wouldn't deter me from getting on the road. What does keep me off the road in that instance is the safety of my sister, who means more to me than pretty much anything else in the world. She's the reason I can't sleep for an hour and a half, jump in the car, and take her to school.

So I skipped my class last night and my class this morning. Boo fucking hoo. Guess that means I'll just have to work a bit harder for the next week or so.

Nothing I can't handle.

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After biking several miles today, I didn't feel a "runner's high" that is supposed to follow strenuous activity. Instead, I just felt incredibly pissed off. I wanted to kick someone in the face if it were physically possible but at that point I couldn't do much in the way of leg movement. What I wouldn't have given for a fucking cigarette at that very moment.

Fast forward a few hours later and I'm about ready to pass out. Got work to do, but my eyes hurt and again I want to maul something. Happy fucking President's Day. (What the fuck kind of fake-ass holiday is that, anyway?) Enjoy your day off if you have one.

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Ahem...

SUCK IT, GRE!!! I win.

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AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHfuckityfuckingAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

That is all.

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I am of course referring to February 15th: International "That's What She Said" Day.

On this most wonderful of days, you are encouraged to slip in a "That's what she said" into every context possible. Of course, every day is "That's What She Said" Day for some people (self included), but this is a chance to get normal people in on the action. ("That's what she said.")

I invite all of you to join in the festivities of International "That's What She Said" Day. I know it's hard ("That's what she said."), but I think if you try hard enough, you can go all day long ("That's what she said."). Just keep pushing ("That's what she said.") and do your best to make this year's International "That's What She Said" Day the best International "That's What She Said" Day in history. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go find something to munch on.

("That's what she said.")

(Um. Because she's a lesbian.)

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It was his birthday yesterday, so I wrote a message on his facebook wall today. (I may have been the only person who remembered because there were no posts there, and he doesn't keep his birthday on the page so facebook wouldn't remind anyone who may have forgotten.)

A few hours ago, his wall vanished.

I wish he would just tell me outright that we weren't friends anymore instead of leaving me here trying to decypher his cryptic possibly passive-aggressive (if indeed this was his say of saying "No, we're not") bullshit. He has always been hard to read, and while I have studied the language and translated many works into plain English, it's still a dead tongue whose original metaphorical meanings have since been lost.

So where the fuck do we stand, Matthew?

I would really like to know.

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