jimminy crickets. i don’t much care for a lot these days aside from people i guess. my own life is just a weird result of some strange cosmic scramble around the time of my birth. i talked to my mother last night who kept insisting that i am here for something, to which i responded, maybe i am here to remind people around me that life can get so much shittier than you expect, effectively making my mark by allowing people the gratification of knowing at least they aren’t me.

i spent a good deal of time dealing with a genetic counselor and assorted tests yesterday at the hospital…in the pediatric cardiology clinic. babies are this torturous theme i cannot escape, and now that i know that i had a chance and cannot repeat it again it is just another reinforcement of what i cannot have. their conclusion was that i had some un-named illness that may or may not be marfan’s but they are leaning away from it since more of my systems aren’t as screwed up. so if i was more messed up then i could have a grounding support, an actual disease to call my own, but because i am only waayyy damaged by blood vessels only and not generally deformed i am just in some kind of limbo land.

yes, i know I am wrong for not appreciating what i do have. a nice dog, a good boyfriend, a few friends scattered across the borders. a job i hate, a degenerative health condition with no sign of stopping at any point, no education, no idea what to do with myself, no connection to anything real except pain. it’s funny, when i was looking for my birth paperwork i found my acceptance letter to boston university which reminded me that i was only one of 292 students accepted into their visual arts program in 1995. which is gayer than it seems, because that was 11 years ago and i haven’t really evolved in any way except that i can tolerate more pain and understand myself and the people around me more thoroughly.

but as far as any goal advancement it’s minimal at best, and at the very most, i have actually done nothing to make myself happy. someone remarked that i was biding my time until i died and doing nothing more pretty recently, and i guess that’s pretty true given the circumstances and the fact that i don’t see any real reason to try to do anything really spectacular anyways. it’s because i am lazy, or because i see no point, or maybe i am a shmorgasborg of different apathies all contrived and messed up to the point where i really am just merely existing. i watch tv and imagine myself in all sorts of combobulations, from an animal conservationist to a photojournalist to a fashion designer to whatever. and they all strike my fancy well enough, but it seems as though the only easy thing would be to be a designer, but how is that career a path that will give me some gratification to my own existence? “yes, deanna, you are here to design the sickest sweater the world has ever seen?!”

ha! writing is fine and good, stories are awesome but i can feel my joints starting to fail which intrudes on the typing a great deal.

paint or make something beautiful for someone my mother says.

right.