Give me pain if that's what's real/ It's the price we pay to feel

I just can't even. Gah.

"In a perfect world, he would sleep only with perfect women, women of perfect femininity." Oh, would he now? Maybe in a perfect world he'd be less of an entitled little prick. Certainly in a perfect world I wouldn't have to keep reading Coetzee.

Doesn't help that I'm still not in the mood for this. At all.

Do you know /Do you know/ What it's like to die alive?

Okay, I truly don't mean to constantly hate on Coetzee. I really did try with Youth. I was all primed to give it a chance, I swear. And then the stuff with Jacqueline happened. First, let's get something out of the way. It is ALWAYS wrong to read the private writings (emails, texts, diaries) of someone else, and EVERYTHING is private until you are told otherwise. It can only end in tears. So yes, she is awful. Fine. But why does Coetzee have to make women so uniquely awful?

Don't get me wrong;  I'm not saying real women are easier to get along with. I'm not even saying that I am easier. I am quite sure that I am an extremely difficult person to deal with, live with, love. But who isn't? I have my hang-ups, fears, obnoxious quirks, moments where I'm so far less than my best self (which, how great is that best self to begin with anyway?). But who doesn't? That happens because we're all human, not because women are uniquely difficult/infantile/selfish/awful as a gender.

Yes, you could argue that Coetzee's protagonist is male and he doesn't have to view women as fully human. And I would say, I don't care. Yes, fine, men as the privileged group get to view women as less than human, they get to be oblivious to women's experiences in a way that women don't get to with men. Same is true for me as a white person. That does not make it okay.

At a time when we're facing a very real, raw, terrifying, and tragic reminder of why street harassment (and even just getting hit on) is not flattering but incredibly scary, my patience for casual misogyny is at an all time low.

So casually cruel in the name of being honest

Maybe I should get a job like this! I'd be done in no time.

Maybe we can't be okay/ But maybe we're tough and we'll try anyway

I should read this book, I think. I kind of really want to, anyway. But, that would certainly put me off track for the quarter.

Tonight I'm getting over you

Oh. My. God. Coetzee.

Dusklands. Oh yes. Yes indeed. I don't want to write about this one. It did annoy me, though. Referencing the Truman Library? Sure, Coetzee, sure. You don't get to look down on the midwest like that. I realize that this is like an older sibling who picks on their younger sibling but will fight to the death anyone else who bugs them, but seriously.

Personally, I have a great fondness for the Truman Library. Life changing events and all that. I dug out some pictures from that. The first one made me so nostalgic. Seriously, this woman so completely changed my life; she was the best thing about my time in undergrad; I was so luck to have been there while she was. I'm so glad that she was able to join for the appointing ceremony thing. Second picture is just amusing to me.

Even if it's a lie/Say it will be all right/And I will believe

Rather than have a more comprehensive existential crisis (because general Jenny existential crises are so 2012..... well, okay, and 2013), I thought I'd have one on the list project.*

What is the point of this project? Is there any point? Does it matter? Does it mean anything?

Why am I doing it? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

In other news, I'm trying to finish off the remaining Coetzee's that I have on the list. That undertaking is not unrelated to the rest of this post.

* Yes, I do realize I am abusing the term.

How could I ever forget?/ The moment my life was set/ That day that I lost you/ It's clear as the day we met

Quote of the day (reminded of after reading another Elizabeth Bowen that left me feeling strangely unsettled)

“Who is ever adequate? We all create situations each other can't live up to, then break our hearts at them because they don't.”
 - Elizabeth Bowen

No, it isn't you/ The girl that I will love/ No, it isn't you/ The girl that will love me

My companions between now and the end of June:

Finding a pencil

In honor of my amazing current roommate (and baby brother) who is getting me all kinds of hard-to-get books on the list today (yay for being a student?), a post on all my roommates over the years:

When I first moved to DC I lived with four people in a huge house in Silver Spring. It was a pretty great set-up, and we had a lot of fun together. It was surprisingly drama free for so many people living together. No passive-aggressive notes about anything, for example, and no arguments about thermostat settings. We survived Snowpocolypse together, too. One roommate spent the whole week baking; we had homemade bread of various kinds, quiche, lasagna, donuts, etc. We probably all gained about 15lbs. This also led me to playing Risk the right way for the first and last time in my life and it was very stressful.

Then I lived in a house with strangers fairly briefly. Nothing too notable, except the guy was kind of a jerk; he would leave the AC on all day and he just used the toilet paper and never contributed. Eventually I just took to not leaving it in the bathroom. I don't know what he did then, but he still never contributed.

After that I moved to an apartment that was a one bedroom and a converted living room. It was okay for a brief stint. The roommate was not notable overall; we didn't ever spend time together. She had a cat, and I cannot for the life of me remember the cat's name. This makes me so crazy. I knew it at one point, I called him by his name, etc. Whenever I try to remember his name, though, I remember the name of the cat at the hostel Sarah and I stayed at in Rome for six days in 2007; why can I remember that but not this more recent cat who I knew for a longer period of time?

Next I lived alone in a studio. It was great and I never once locked myself out, despite having several mini panic attacks about that (which my father assisted with by sending me articles about how corrupt locksmiths are; thanks, Dad!).

When I moved to my current place I briefly lived with a temporary roommate found on Craigslist. I nicknamed her (not to her face; I'm not sure, though, if that makes it better or worse) "the puppy" because she was rather puppy-like (she was 22, just moved to the big city, etc.). She was a great roommate from a Parks & Rec definition.

And now I live with Josh!

Son of steel and daughter of air

I have recently read a number (that is a bit of an exaggeration, but more than one) of articles/posts/musings with the thesis "be the main character in your life/don't get stuck as a supporting character." The ones I have read have been targeted specifically at women, so it's a mix of don't be stuck as the love interest/don't be stuck as the best friend role.

Now, yes, I am the girl who really wants an "I'm not your manic pixie dream girl" t-shirt (so useful; potentially so adorable if designed right), but I do take issue with this on a few fronts.

First, these articles are not at all literary analysis of why it is better to be the main character. Instead, they are short-hand for things like, don't just be the cheerleader/support role, go after what you want, know when to prioritize your needs, be ambitious and driven and follow your dreams, don't get stuck on the sidelines, live intentionally, etc. I am here to tell you that plenty of main characters (often, yes, the more irritating ones) are extremely passive in their lives, so...

Second, to the extent that they are referring to sidekick characters, they are referring to the poorly written ones, and it's not really possible to be that kind of character because they are two dimensional. That is the problem with them/why you shouldn't want to be them, and also why you really can't, if you are in fact a real person.

Third, there are some sidekick characters I would much rather be. They tend to have less drama/messes. They are the characters, at least in some cases who are the most put together. I was reading an essay recently by an author who was contrasting her life with all its mess (the life of the main character) to a friend (the sidekick) who had egg spoons. Don't you want to be the one with the egg spoons?

To conclude this post and demonstrate how far I am from a manic pixie dream girl, here I am flying:

I am the one who loved you/ I am the one who stayed/ I am the one and you walked away

It's been awhile since I've done a list entry, so here is a list of the ways at which I am failing at life right now:

Not dressing weather appropriately. Don't get me wrong, I (obsessively) check the weather, but somehow that doesn't influence my behavior adequately. I dress warmly on hot days and I say "it's spring, no leggings!' on cold days.

Accumulating a disturbing number of spoons at my desk at work. Why don't I just bring them back to the dishwasher in the kitchen?

Giving into my hatred of expense reports and not getting ~$35 back because I just can't stand to do a lost receipt report (neither San Diego cab had receipts, so this one is not completely my fault; it's not like I lost the receipts, that would be a real fail).

Seeing an Ann Taintor tray that said "I dreamed that my whole house was clean" and identifying so strongly.  

Having enough Chris Brown songs on my iPod that it can be on shuffle and play three of them in a row. When that happened today I just knew that I am failing.

Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away

I'm still awkward! I know you've all been wondering if I somehow got less awkward and that's why I've not had any to share for so long, but oh no, I've not lost that quality at all. In this particular case, though, it was technically an awkward airport encounter.

I'm sitting around, minding my own business when an elderly gentleman approaches me and asks me to watch his bag while he goes to the restroom. Now, yes, the slightly robotic voice did come on at exactly that moment and remind us not to leave luggage unattended and never to accept luggage from strangers, but was I seriously going to say no? So as he wandered off I contemplated how bad I'd feel if I exploded in the next few minutes.

When he returned he sat down next to me. I knew then that things were going to get awkward. He asked me about my book and said how delightful it was to see a young lady reading (side note: I seem to be super adorable to old men; I'm not sure why, though I think maybe they think I'm sweeter than I am?). We chatted about Magus for a bit, and then he asked for help with charging his phone.

That's when things took a turn. You see, his phone is apparently bugged. By men in suits. Who also follow him everywhere. They are not the FBI, he is quite sure, because they have been too obvious and amateur. I started to worry about the whole bag watching thing, but it was in the past.

I'm pretty sure that he has some sort of dementia, because he kept forgetting whether California was home or DC for me and asked me to tell him my story several times (why oh why can't I have an easier job to explain that doesn't lead to people wanting to talk about organized crime in Russia?). Though, after the flight when he saw me he remembered my name. Which yes, that did sort of feel a bit creepy.

Go me!

This all reminds me of the one time I made friends with a stranger on a plane and it went well. He also used my book (something on theater of the oppressed) as an opening to chat and we actually seriously hit it off. He gave me his phone number, which is less creepy than asking for mine, right? I never called him, though. I kick myself in retrospect, since that was probably my best chance to make out with a stranger on an airplane. I'm pretty sure in hindsight that he'd have gone for it, and it would a) make for a better story, and b) be a good bucket-list activity, right?

EDIT: I was 21 at the time; I don't know why, but I feel like that is important context.