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Jul. 6th, 2010 | 11:53 am

I am a slow walker, but I never walk backwards.
- Abraham Lincoln

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(no subject)

Mar. 15th, 2009 | 08:13 pm
mood: blahblah
music: book of right-on--joanna newsom

I have this really nasty habit of preparing too much. The word “preparing” isn’t entirely accurate because the word implies activity; I think too much about preparing to do something. I’ve been sitting here for half an hour reading weight loss journals, thinking of how I’m going to make these important life changes. Instead of getting up, going to the store and buying some fruits and veggies, or cleaning the kitchen and doing something productive, I’ve been listening to music and reading and acting like it’s the same thing as actually making changes. I can’t even write this without bullshitting, stopping to go grab some yogurt out of the fridge or download songs. I’m sick of hiding and being inactive and hating every aspect of my life. I’m sick of dreaming my life away.

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Taken from journal at work

Nov. 15th, 2007 | 05:13 pm
mood: excitedexcited
music: like a feather--nikka costa


…and also, how do people do that?  How do they get up at, like, six and exercise?  How does one drag one’s carcass from under the toasty, comfy covers and go to town on a treadmill? Tell me, please, because I would really love to be able to do that. I would like to get up, maybe do some belly dancing or something equally fun and beneficial, and then go about my day feeling confident in my superiority over those lazy slobs who just rolled out of bed and came to work.

     And just deciding to do it isn’t an option for me. I need something else. I’m not terribly fond of exercise. Wait, that’s not right. And that sounds like such a stereotypical fat person comment. I like to move and work up a sweat, but I don’t necessarily want to have an exercise routine. 25 minutes of crunches and weights, 30 minutes workout tape, 40 minutes on the treadmill seems like a drag (plus, I can’t even fathom how people can work out for hours at a time. It’s inhuman). I loved playing softball in my younger days (I so regret dropping that) and I like walking places as long as I can walk at my own snail-like pace and take breaks when I need them. But I really can’t do either of those things anymore. Walking anywhere is impossible where I live, and I think if I tried to run from home plate to 1st base, I might collapse. Yes, I am that out of shape. I have to do something. But what?

     I’ve thought of trying to make yoga a part of my morning routine, but the one time I did it early, I ended up taking a two hour nap. I’ve thought about some dance tape or something. I can’t really call it dancing, what I do though, but it’s fun.  Lately, I’ve been listening to Beyonce’s “ Get Me Bodied” trying to make my limbs remember how to do the Roger Rabbit (weren’t the 90s fun?). I listen to Gwen Stefani’s “What You Waitin’ For?” while I brush my teeth just ‘cause it makes me wanna punch every naysayer, gawker, smart-ass, and yes-butter right in the face. I mean that in a good way. So if I could just set aside half an hour, I could dance around, get my heart rate up and be in a better mood for work. I could do this… only… it would require me to get my shit together the night before. No more sitting on my bed staring into space for twenty minutes. No more sitting on the toilet trying to get enough strength to wash myself. If I got up at 6:00 AM and exercised for half an hour, I would still have time to get my coffee and be on time. I’ll try it tomorrow. Modest goals. 

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more ranting

Nov. 12th, 2007 | 08:05 pm
mood: okayokay
music: now it's on--grandaddy


I woke up this morning kind of still in a dream. I didn’t remember anything, but I woke up, kind of mumbling to someone, “I’m twenty five years old,” or something like that. That thought took root and I couldn’t stop thinking that as I looked around my slovenly bedroom and tried to will my useless limbs to move. I’m twenty-five-years-old.

Well, not officially. Not for a month and some days, but for all intents and purposes, I’m twenty-five-years-old and I feel like nothing has changed or improved, but that I’ve sunk into this idiotic rut. I don’t read or write or think. I work and eat fast food and keep vampiric hours and play the goddamn Sims. Yesterday, Tiffany made me exercise with her, which was a step in the right direction, but not big enough. Not nearly big enough. I absolutely loathe the turn things have taken. I have gotten comfortable. That’s not the right word; I’ve settled. I hate to think how comfortable I’d be if I were making enough to live. If I had enough for a new car and rent and bills, I’d probably never leave. And why isn’t having a life enough of an inducement to change? When I was determined to go to Prague, I made a plan and stuck to it (until I convinced myself that it wasn’t going to pan out, and quit, so… bad example). But I know I have the ability to make things happen, I just need something specific, something clear cut. “Move out” isn’t enough. It’s too vague. “Get a job with insurance” just isn’t where my head is right now, and I can’t make it be there. But I do desire some change. I hate my body. And I hate wearing the same shit all the time. And I hate this car and living in this town and being a cashier and being twenty-five-years-old with no prospects of improving my life or putting my schooling to good use. I’m tired of being out of shape and scared.

If I called Mrs. R, but wasn’t able to get a job out of our conversation, would that be the end of the world? I’ve got to stop thinking that every rejection or failure is world shattering. I mean, it’s possible that things are changing right now, as I’m sitting in my car, sweaty and tired, writing on scratch paper about this life of mine. It’s totally possible that as I’m scribbling this, the universe is already putting things in place to reveal something great to me. But I just don’t believe that right now. Not entirely.

I do believe that things are revealed to us when we’re ready, but it’s not this passive experience of the Universe or God or whatever giving you what you want or need. Katie at work told me about this woman who prayed to lose weight, and even though it hadn’t happened yet, it was going to. She wasn’t exercising or eating right, but God was going to do this for her because she was… more devout or a better person or whatever. I guess she thought God would reach down through the clouds and zap her fat away or something, which would be awesome (and kinda hilarious for some reason). But it doesn’t work that way. You have to make some effort. Where was I going with this? I have to set goals, decide for reals what its that I want and then do that. God, if I could just not give a fuck. Like, if I could just be like, “fuck it” and do what I want. What I really want. Not what I think my parents want me to want or what I think I should want even though I don’t really want it. It can’t be something that I’m just settling on. Only when I embrace what I really want will I be able to say, “Fuck. It.” You know? Good, I cause don’t. What am I rambling about?

     My problems. Part of it is that I have already convinced myself that it won’t work out, and that I don’t deserve it.  I’m a fat, unlovable sub-human. I’m too fat to go to Italy with Heniff and ride on the backs of motorcycles and play in fountains and run into crowds of pigeons to make them fly away, and every other cliché you can think of. I’m too horrible a person to be out in the world with other people. I’m too fucking revolting to write and teach and blow glass and, you know, live. But I’m so totally not. Fuck it. Fuck it in the ass.  I need to get over it already and stop trying to hide myself. I’m here. Celie says it best in The Color Purple: ”I may be black, poor, I may even be ugly, but I’m here.”

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I wanna get this down before I pass out.

Oct. 17th, 2007 | 11:16 pm
mood: melancholymelancholy
music: weird fishes/arpeggi

I wanna get this down before I pass out. I have the opportunity to get a good night’s rest and I don’t want to waste it, but I’ve got to get this down.


For the last couple of days, I’ve been thinking incessantly about how to go about getting out of this rut. On Tuesday, I spent every free moment I wasn’t doing go-backs or ringing up people to write about it. As Tiffany, the new cashier, said, “whoa… you have a lot to write about.” Yeah, I totally did. I was trying to get to the crux of the problem. I think maybe I keep hoping that the outcome will be different. I think maybe, deep down, I keep hoping it can be somebody else’s fault. My dad’s or my mom’s or Tiffany’s or Tre’s or Dan and Melissa’s or Kayla’s. No matter how I cut it, they are not responsible, but I’m determined. I’m determined to spin it somehow so I’m a victim and not at fault in any way. I even try to say that it’s just the way God made it—can’t figure out the rhymes and reasons of that crazy ol’ God! But it’s me. It’s in me. Very, very, very slowly, I’m realizing this. I have yet to act on it. It always hits me in the evening or early morning when I’m listening to sad/eerie/beautiful music. Maybe I should listen to PJ Harvey and Radiohead all the time just so I can keep this state of mind. No, if I did that, I’d have to kill myself. I never feel lonelier or less significant than when I listen to them. Right now, I’m sitting here in the study, listening to this song and the wind blowing outside, sipping water, and feeling like total shit. I not only feel lonely and insignificant but just wrong and horrible and childish and wretched. Not gonna get off topic here. I was talking about how I’m no victim and that my life and my problems are really my own fault. It’s a very hard thing to deal with. Knowing that the shitty circumstances in which you find yourself is mostly your fault. My brain and body want to reject it. It’s easier that way. But somehow, something in me doesn’t want life to be like this and it gets to me and reminds me that I kinda suck the way I am right now. I have all these dreams, some grandiose and some unexceptional. I wanna live in LA and write for a television show and hang out with Mindy Kaling and Jonah Hill and write and be rich and win Emmys, but sometimes all I want is my own little space, my own little home where I can write and play Wii for hours and listen to Radiohead and cry. I want those lunches with Jonah at little bistros, laughing at inside jokes, being oh-so-cool, but I’d settle for having a small group of writer friends to see occasionally to talk to about books and work and whatnot. I’d settle for having some energy and some brainpower and a little… gumption. I want to blow glass and have my own business and sell handmade pieces to Oprah and Darryl Hannah (where did she come from?) for hundreds of thousands of dollars, but it’d be fine to just do glass blowing as a hobby and give my little lopsided, imperfect vases and ashtrays and glasses to friends and family. I want to sew and knit and cook and wear aprons and steal Dan’s recipe for banana bread so I can make it on Sunday mornings. I just want to be… out there. Does that make any sense at all? Aren’t I already out there?


No. I’m so in here that it’s not even funny. I’m terrified of leaving home, of being on my own, of being responsible for myself, of trying to make friends, of trying to keep the friends I have, of being seen, of being heard, of being loved, of being alive. I’m not out there because I’m terrified and lazy. Yes, lazy too. I can be honest because I’m exhausted. This week, I planned on calling Melissa and demanding that she let me in the house so we could watch the UK version The Office and eat Chinese food from Chi Tung and then watch the US The Office and talk about the shows and work and school and dreams. I never did. I probably won’t. Because I hate her? No. I love her. But it’s so much work. Calling and driving and getting gas and putting clothes on. And I’m so tired. Not that tired. But lazy-tired, which makes you feel about 2.5 times more tired than you actually are. I sabotage myself. I don’t call Mrs. Robinson to see about a job. I don’t go to Columbia to see about that one class that I need to get my diploma. I don’t go walk with Tiffany or eat right. Because I don’t want to? No. Because I’m terrified and lazy-tired.


But I feel it so keenly. Lately, I’ve been feeling like, “Fuck. What am I doing? When I was the last time I went downtown? Or hung with my friends? Or did anything that didn’t revolve around sitting in front of the computer? Fuck me, I’m lame.” And then now, when I’m tired (genuinely tired) and alone and lonely and listening to Thom Yorke’s voice (which is probably the most melancholy and beautiful voice in the world), I don’t have the strength to be distracted into being happy. I’m not happy. I know what I have to do. I know I have it in me. This resolute… spirit or whatever. This light or fire or whatever in me. I have the potential for greatness. I know it. And I want it. I want someone to read this and be moved and yet, that shitty part of me, that cowardly little bitch wants to hide. I can’t explain it really. I want to be seen and heard and do something, but I also want to hide. But I know I can do something with myself. I have a good heart, a decent mind, a little talent, and a loving spirit. I have the potential to be the Future Me that I want to be. Maybe not LA Jonesy or Bolingbrook Jonesy, but content, thoughtful, loving Jonesy. I’d be pleased as punch to be Content Jonesy, dropping off banana bread to Dan and Melissa’s little gay love nest, talking and laughing with my sister like an equal (finally), reading at Story Week, moving people with my words.  I wish someone could just tell me what to do. Well, I know what I need to do. I just wish someone would make me do it.  

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(no subject)

Oct. 10th, 2007 | 10:21 pm
mood: morosecontemplating purging
music: coin operated boy--the dresden dolls

I’m a terrible person. rotten. unlovable. gross. I didn’t eat anything today until about seven pm. And then instead of getting a nice healthy salad or something, I had a double quarter pounder with cheese, fries, and a medium coke. Then three hours later, I came home and devoured the beef stroganoff from Noodles & Company and had a tall glass of raspberry lemonade. Bad, Jonesy! Bad girl! This week has been horrible. I could blame it on Aunt Flo being in town, but I won’t. And I won’t ever call my period Aunt Flo ever again. And why is it so fucking cold all of a sudden? Christ.

Okay… stats

Double Quarter Pounder Meal: 1100
Pita: 210
Beef Stroganoff: 1250
Fuck me
Total (not including those M&Ms I ate or the lemonade): 2560
Yikes. I hate me.
I just wanna curl up under the covers and watch some BBC movie. Like, Wives and Daughters and a mug of something sweet and hot would be perfect right now.

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(no subject)

Oct. 6th, 2007 | 10:48 pm
mood: calmcalm
music: the devil--pj harvey

Today was the pits in the calorie and exercise department. Dude, just put me down for 500 million. But here are yesterday’s stats:

Caramel coffee drink: 245

Chicken salad: 240

Half glass of punch: 70

2 Fried chicken wings

Chips: 200

Half a cup of wild rice

Cup of veggies

Medium-sized pork chop

There’s something brewing here, some story bubbling to the surface. Some hidden opportunity about to rear its head. I can feel it.

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(no subject)

Oct. 4th, 2007 | 11:35 pm
mood: exhaustedexhausted
music: silence--pj harvey

bit of an overhaul. maybe now that i've put so much work into this i'll actually use it. today...not a good day on the food front. intended to get up early and have oatmeal and coffee with spelnda and nonfat milk, but went to Dunkin' and had a giant coffee and a muffin. so good but so wrong. and then dinner was just... i was a pig. had a good day at work and laughed at assholes instead of getting all worked up about it. don't know if that is a sign of maturity or stupidity. whatever. i'm exhausted beyond belief and this song is ripping me apart.


Coffee: 128
Muffin: 470 (Jaysus!)
Lean cuisine Salmon with dill sauce (actually more disgusting than it sounds): 260
Banana: 63
Salsa, chicken, cheese thing: 500 by shire reckoning
Krunchers chips: 390
Total: 1811

fuck. me. i'm not even including that hunk of cookie dough i consumed. maybe i shouldn't sit and listen to sad songs and watch heroes. it makes me eat like crazy. 

no exercise except for walking from the back of the parking lot.

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(no subject)

Oct. 3rd, 2007 | 10:28 pm
mood: contemplativecontemplative
music: the devil--p.j. harvey

“I see you as a kind person who is just comfortable in her own skin. You think, ‘screw the world. I am who I am and I’m not going to change for you. Take me or leave me.” My mother told me this about five minutes ago. She told me I know who I am. I wish. I wish I could just stare down the world and say, “Fuck you.” I wish that more than I can really express. I wish I had that strength and that confidence and that self-awareness. I am constantly floundering and wondering and searching. Of course, that’s life, and obviously, I’m allowed to wonder a little bit who I am since I’m only in my twenties, but I just wish I were really a little bit of that person. I don’t know if Ma was just blowing smoke up my ass, but I’d feel a little better if what she said was true, if there were a little bit of truth it in. If there were a possibility of it. It might just be that I don’t see myself as other see me. That’s possible. I’m neither so repulsive nor so spectacular as I think people think I am. Did that make sense? Because I think I’m just an awful, boring, lazy, stupid, childish person, but then Matt tells me I’m the kind of person who makes things happen and gets work done, and customers tell me how I’m nice and calm in a crisis. I dunno. I just wish it weren’t so easy for me to believe the negative things people say about me.

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(no subject)

Sep. 29th, 2007 | 03:06 pm
mood: indescribableindescribable
music: ivanka--imperial teen

Okay, figured out something today: I need to get a life.

Like, seriously, today I caught myself. When I was at work, I was thinking, “As soon as I get outta here, Imma go get some chicken nuggets and just… tear into ‘em!” And dude, I don’t even talk like that. Some crazy broad had taken over my brain. It’s slowly coming together. Too slowly for my liking, but some movement is I guess. I can only hope that once all the thoughts and ideas and whatnot are all in order, then the action will begin. I exercised that one night when I was watching Top Chef, but once every other week just isn’t enough. And eating McDonalds definitely isn’t helping things. I need to be eating fruits and veggies, not things that have been deep-fried. No more soda. Although, I have to admit, I’ve been doing a pretty good job with the water intake. But back to my point here. God I’m sleep all of a sudden. My point. Yes… my point is that I realized that instead dreaming about tearing into some chicken nuggets or a blizzard or a hamburger, I should find something else. Like, I should look forward to finishing a chapter of some book (or better yet, finish writing a chapter) or doing something. There’s just got to be more to my life than working at Jo-ann and eating my weight in junk. And I realize that I shouldn’t be too congratulatory about this because it’s like “Duh Jonesy. Junk food and lack of exercise and making food your entire life equals fat ass”. I know this, but it’s still important to realize this and act on it. Choices and living and improving and all that. I don’t have Dr. Blinky to help me out so I’m trying the best I can.

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