backyard crowing


i scream, you scream, we all scream for PRIMAL SCREAM

I want to set up a booth on campus for Primal Scream Therapy.

Our team would alert the police of our plan, and make big signs so passersby would know the reason for the screaming.

We would situate ourselves far enough out of hearing range so as not to disturb studiers -- but someplace with the student footprint.

Surely such a desire says more about me than anyone else.


In other news, I've suffered a breakdown and a breakthrough.

The breakthrough:

I realized that a big reason why I haven't done my homework for a specific class is due to hating the footage. Well, not hating the footage, actually -- hating the former professor I've ranted about here, many a time. I associate this film footage with tears, anger, embarrassment, and a fucking awful professor. So OF COURSE I'm having trouble finishing the assignment. It's the same shit, in a different class. DUH! Thank you, self-psychoanalysis!

Now for the breakdown:

The other night while he was asleep, I looked through R's history and saw that a couple of days ago he was looking at Rhonda Ro, clad in a painted on bikini. Depressing as hell.

So I've carried this with me for probably 36 hours, and not told him what's going on. I have been about as stubborn and closed off and rude as I can possibly be. I'm fucking pissed off. I wish he didn't look at that shit. I cannot compete, obviously -- she's an athlete, she works out probably 10 hours a day. Jesus Christ.

We had a conversation that was so one-sided it actually became funny:

"Do you want to go camping?"


"Is there anything I can do?"


And on and on. I hate him.

Some of this is self-hatred, too. On occasion, I look at pornography and the like, and I myself don't even agree with it. It feels way too similar to cheating, from both sides: the viewer is a cheater, and the cheated on is the significant other of the viewer.

And it's not just that, I have moral objections to it. The women in those photos and "films" THINK they're onto something -- maybe a nice few paychecks -- but in the end, they regret it. Yes, there ARE some women who love it, but that's not most women. Many are enslaved, whether they know it yet or not. Just because you have an apartment to go home to doesn't mean you're free. And then there are the LITERAL sex slaves. Again: depressing. Women's bodies are not playthings.

The other (sort of) breakthrough:

I guessed his Windows login password. Interestingly enough, the magic word is the name of the God he worships. Or doesn't. Whatever. He's not really a worshipper, more of a belief-systemer.

So do I tell him what's up, what's on my mind? Or do I feel relieved that I've figured out his password, because now I can check on him anytime I want, in case things are starting to look dire?

I'm tired, diaryland. So tired that the anger is departing, and likely to fire up again in the morning. It's exhausting.


I read something in the bookstore tonight: "women are not allowed to be angry or ambitious or even HUNGRY."

The author went on to say that the moment in a girl's life when she wins over her male counterparts is the SAME moment she is told to be polite, quiet, and focus on being skinny. In that same life moment, the boy is told never to show emotion, and to always be angry instead of showing fear.

(Paraphrased from Brene Brown's Rising Strong.)

3:43 am - Sunday, Mar. 13, 2016


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