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dead letters.
Mar. 21st, 2006 04:42 pmI always feel so dirty writing emails to Michele (Therapist Lady) hounding her to please for the love of
G-d get in touch with the people at Callen-Lorde so I can at least get the g-ddamn letter out of the way. First I feel like there's always a taste of desperation beneath my carefully-crafted words, which sucks. Also I hate feeling like, well, now it's time for me to put our therapy to good work! As if the only point of going was to get her to help me get hormones. I mean that was a big part of it but not the sole point. Anyway I sent her another email, complete with the numbers of the folks she needs to talk to, and we'll see if she responds to this one. Maybe she's on vacation or something but I don't really care, honestly.
I'm hungry and my house is pretty much out of food. We're also out of dishwashing soap, so you can imagine. I'm hoping that my roommate went shopping today because I sure as hell didn't.
Tomorrow I'm going to Paris, woo! J'ai peur de ne peux pas parler en francais. (How do you do accents on a PC?) And of taking the metro at close-to-1am in a city where I no longer speak the language. Oh well. I'm really really excited. Sometimes I forget I've never been to continental Europe.
I'm practically monopolizing the UCD library's collection of Butler books. C'est dommage, je dont les besoin. (See what I mean? What's the proper way of saying that?) Fuck me if I know how I'm going to write this essay, but at least I've got mounds of books to read once I get back from Paris. (Aside from the photocopied no future, I'm exercising enough sense to leave the rest behind.) Ehm, by which I mean I have less than a week to read them, process them, and synthetically critique the ideas contained therein in an essay which at this point is about "monstrosity, and the trans, and the un/livability of abjection." Haha, good fucken luck.
G-d get in touch with the people at Callen-Lorde so I can at least get the g-ddamn letter out of the way. First I feel like there's always a taste of desperation beneath my carefully-crafted words, which sucks. Also I hate feeling like, well, now it's time for me to put our therapy to good work! As if the only point of going was to get her to help me get hormones. I mean that was a big part of it but not the sole point. Anyway I sent her another email, complete with the numbers of the folks she needs to talk to, and we'll see if she responds to this one. Maybe she's on vacation or something but I don't really care, honestly.
I'm hungry and my house is pretty much out of food. We're also out of dishwashing soap, so you can imagine. I'm hoping that my roommate went shopping today because I sure as hell didn't.
Tomorrow I'm going to Paris, woo! J'ai peur de ne peux pas parler en francais. (How do you do accents on a PC?) And of taking the metro at close-to-1am in a city where I no longer speak the language. Oh well. I'm really really excited. Sometimes I forget I've never been to continental Europe.
I'm practically monopolizing the UCD library's collection of Butler books. C'est dommage, je dont les besoin. (See what I mean? What's the proper way of saying that?) Fuck me if I know how I'm going to write this essay, but at least I've got mounds of books to read once I get back from Paris. (Aside from the photocopied no future, I'm exercising enough sense to leave the rest behind.) Ehm, by which I mean I have less than a week to read them, process them, and synthetically critique the ideas contained therein in an essay which at this point is about "monstrosity, and the trans, and the un/livability of abjection." Haha, good fucken luck.
