It’s warm underneath all my layers. I cover up my body so you can’t see my face. It doesn’t make sense and everyone can actually see it but I continue to do so. When I was little and ashamed of my body, I would wear heavy clothes, double extra larges and baggy jeans. Now I wear double extra smalls and jeans that my junk hardly fits in. What happened to me in the 10 years?

I was informed yesterday that I think too much. I think too much about time, about age, about life, about what I want. I should just think about something else, he says. I cannot describe the impossibility of that order. I can’t think about something else. I can’t not think. I think too much, all the time, every day, overanalyze. Don’t other people do the same thing? How do they survive? How do they not fall into circles of ideas, of paradigms. I slip into the romanticism of ideologies because I can understand them, I can know them. I suppose I live in the theoretical when I’m depressed; I’m not sure if that’s what I am right now. It’s been worse; much worse. This isn’t just about him. If it were, I could be ok. It’s just a lot of things. A lot of nonsense that I can’t site Said or Foucault about. Maybe I should learn how to do such a thing. Apply theory to my life isntead of everyone elses.

No thanks, too much work. I hate sitting in class and not having anything to do. We’re lighting pieces and I did mine on Friday. Just sitting here blogging. And my scarf is making me so warm. I’m jumping out now. I’ll be back later today. This thing is gonna get real full real fast.