I'm going to listen to Ke$ha and 3OH!3 for a bit and thought it was worth announcing.

I am so unreasonably angry I am going running, but first, here is some fiction

When I woke up, my whole back itched, and the fervent dreams from the night before hadn't been so fantastical. Nearly the entire length of my spine was covered in oversized goosebumps. A cold shower calmed the need to scratch a bit, but lotion did nothing to help. I laid face down on my bed to air-dry the damp before putting on a shirt. Some of the bumps were red where angry pink lines had been carelessly drawn by my nails. I spent the day and another night in irritable spirits, sleeping and having nightmares.

In the morning, I refused consciousness to avoid recognizing the persistent itching. Except I wasn't itchy. My eyes opened and I jumped out of bed to check my back. Except that I didn't, because I was stuck in the shredded fabric of my former sheets. I screamed. The entirety of my back was covered in short, pointed bristles. The dung beetle of the metamorphosis hadn't been so terrified to wake up a dung beetle as I was to wake up a porcupine. And he wasn't expected to get a summer job. Those were poor choices for a first mental response, but I've always been a little prone to denial. I called my dad before any attempts at reaching a doctor. I was embarrassed, but scared, and that cut through his disbelief. I wasn't in much pain, but he advised that I take some advil and stay put until he got home. I googled for med reports of something similar happening, but empty-handed settled on the wikipedia article for porcupines. They're the third largest rodent, and the "porc" of porcupine is from the French word for pig. Great. I took a furtive pull at one of the lower quills. Definitely connected to nerves. I wondered if it was communicable and that I should probably call my mom. She'd be upset it'd taken so long for me to think of calling her.

Today

Useless Post

In the here and right now of my room back (at?) home, I am Chloe. At a show in West Chester where I am intimidated and making awkward small talk with people whose names I can't quite remember, I am also Chloe. At Temple University or texting other students from that great institution, I am Chloe. When I go to church on a Sunday morning, whether the denomination is Catholic or Baptist, I am still Chloe.

Context does have a large influence on who I am moment to moment, but that's due to my changing reactions, not an underlying change.

If I can't articulate what has changed, and I'm not sure what all I have changed from, and I still manage to function pretty well, then it probably doesn't matter. What probably does matter is a realistic and thorough look at my present, and what that may mean for my future.

What Do I Want

I want to fall in love again, but I suspect that is a fickle notion brought about by feelings of summertime and my recent reading material. Everything Matters! was a good recommendation from Dan, and revitalized a little hero worship for my dad. Both that sentiment and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance have made me question my definition of masculine and what I look for in a guy. It's a good complement to my recent self-probing on what it means to be feminine. I've determined that on a day to day basis, the kinds of guys I want to date are different from the ones I'd spend the rest of my life with, and that I don't want to get hurt by wasting my time with incompatible people. I still fall infatuated by talent, though. Such is life, and boys and girls have always had such a sad time with each other. My lack of emotion has prevented any worthwhile attachments recently, to more or less anything. (Though I've been crying a lot lately for not feeling much.) I'd like for some passion to externally direct who I should become, but there is still nothing that I'd be satisfied doing for eight hours a day. I need the variation, and maybe a kick in the pants. I'm going to call Tyler's admissions on Monday and ask about their Bachelor of Arts in Art. It's an almost redundant degree, but complements a liberal arts degree and would give me that creative outlet I've been missing. We'll see. I've got some basic sketches for upcoming projects, and maybe I should write. I started journaling again. Summer is good for that, as is this notebook meant for Italy- Steve did a good job with it. I'm going to read for a bit more. Mom and I are going to the 12 o'clock service at Holy Child, and she wants me to wear the white dress we got around Easter, so in the morning I'll be shaving for Jesus.