It wonít be long before it will be freezing cold in my bedroom, but itís kind of nice that there wonít be anyone around to complain about it.

My bedroom has three large windows that take up the entire south wall. In the summer, itís the hottest room in the house, and in the winter, itís the coldest. Iím there to experience the temperature change, but I enjoy forcing myself to be adaptive.

I feel like I havenít been doing very well ever since I had that allergic reaction. I donít want to admit that Iím afraid because itís not significant to anyone else. However, I donít play a significant role in the life of anyone else, so that makes sense. I guess when one thinks about her own mortality, thatís the first thought that comes to mind, ďWhoís going to care?Ē No one? Letís get on with it then.

Meow. Oh. You.

I also havenít done any sitting meditation for about two weeks. For me, thatís like going off my meds.

When I told my brother about the allergy, I did wonder in the back of my mind if he would mention it to our father. But, I knew that he would only react by saying it must mean that I am somehow defective. Well, I suppose thatís true. An allergy wouldnít happen to a perfectly working physiology, would it?

Iím not sure if Iím really upset about it. When I think about how my death relates to him, I think about the last time it was mentioned between us. He was upset that I split my life insurance into three equal parts, for him, my mother and my brother. He didnít think my mother should get any and demanded that I change it.

Normally, heís not insistent about anything. Heís too lazy to argue about much. I told him that I would change it, but I never did. If Iím going to start playing favorites, heís not going to be on the top of the list.

Of course, it makes me unhappy that if I do die, then heíll know I never changed it. Then heíll know that I messed up another thing. I managed to disappoint him again, even in death.

I donít know why, but today, I was thinking about the voice training I had when I was younger. Iím not sure it really means anything, but I had this memory of my voice teacher making me promise that I would continue studying after I left.

This is when I graduated high school. I think that I was probably expecting her to be glad that she wouldnít have to listen to my screeching anymore. I worked very, very hard, but I couldnít cut it as a singer. Some of that was related to stage fright. I know I performed worse in public. I just donít know how much worse.

Anyway, I did want to continue. The first month or so I was in college, I contacted a couple of voice teachers. After a few weeks, I realized that it was nice to not be under that much pressure anymore, especially in a new town, where no one even had to know I ever had a lesson or sang anything. Plus, thatís when I discovered the internet, and the entirety of my life since has been recorded in 1ís and 0ís somewhere out in cyberspace.

I donít know why I was thinking of that. Maybe itís one of those things where I truly failed. I didnít fail because I am horrendously untalented (Iím not, I have my strengths and weaknesses, just like everyone else). I failed because I didnít push myself through it.

I feel slightly better now, but I still hate this world.

I have been under a lot of stress over the past few months, and Iíve been wondering how and when Iíd crack. I guess I am improving because it appears that Iím not cracking like a psychopath, like I would have in the past.

Iím not saying Iím perfectly healthy or anything crazy like that.

Oh, so yesterday, I ended up in Greenwich Village and out of sheer luck, saw the lady below perform. I was pretty impressed. This must be why I was thinking about music. Yeah, I play guitar worse than I singÖ or better, depending on how you measure quality.


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Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2007 at 11:51 PM