ohhhhhh nelly. here we are, and i’m feeling a little, uhhhh, what’s the word, fatigued? i don’t wanna do the work today.

i talked to mom on facetime. there’s a feeling i get after talking to her, as if i might start crying.

as i look out the window and see beautiful [city] from the fourteenth story of [school], i see the gradient in the sky, and i see that i’m still alive.

and we all know how easily death follows life, as in, how easily the thought of death follows the thought of life.

i’m now a certified flop. and that honestly feels really good and indie and scene. i got rejected. i love the feeling of failure because it sets you free.

i went into it very haughty, very high and mighty, thinking i was god’s gift.

it’s good to be alive still, and luckily that’s going to be the case no matter how far i get. no matter what happens, no matter how hard i flop, it’s still going to be good to be alive.

one thing i love about pride and prejudice is the lore that jane austen published it anonymously cuz she would've gotten flack if people knew she wrote it. the lady catherines of the world would’ve scolded her and tore her shit up. she was trying to dismantle the ruling class. she was trying to put power back into the hands of the meek.

i remember one time in my life when i cheated on a test. it was an english test. a test, not a quiz, so the stakes were high. it was the first page, the easiest part, and the question was, basically, effectively, what is the past participle of 'sit.' and i really fuckin wrote 'sitten'. i wrote 'sitten' on the paper, and i knew it felt wrong, so i took a glance at what k----- had written, and she had written 'sat.' so i wrote 'sat,' and i got the question right, and i did well on the test. and that was one of the things that got me to where i am today.

the lesson, of course, is that if i hadn’t cheated off her, i would’ve gotten a worse grade, and it might’ve been the difference between....... i’m sure it wouldn’t, but for the sake of the argument... i wouldn't have made it to prestigious university times two, to the end of my graduate degree. and at this point, i’m all but full-blown psychotic. but i’m an artist so i get away with it, and i’m socially active so i get away with it, and i can do all my ADLs so i get away with it. so i get away with it.

the point is i’m an unrecognizable version of myself now — that’s not true, not true at all. it's just that i had a series of errors that led me to where i am now, so the rest of my life becomes error correction.

the rocking of my chair reminds me that part of error correction is how you choose to take care of yourself.

sub-xiphoid it was funny today when dr. t----- told us those compliments about how we looked on ultrasound. he told r---- that he has 'great anatomy,' and i saw the smile on r----’s face after he said it. he told me that i have a 'great heart,' and i remember feeling really touched by that, and i told mom on the phone, and she was touched by it, too.

when dr. t----- complimented t-----'s gallbladder, he said, 'thanks, i grew it myself.' these are the little pearls that get me through the day and prevent my being fully crushed by the weight of it all.

what's it like so much to do, so many social airs to keep up, and so many t t t t things to be done in the real world, with real people...

nature... i wonder if nature will see much of me. but to be fair, it’s february, and i’m at least getting time outdoors. i’m not seeing trees, no, that’s true, nor snow that hasn't been touched by garbage and ambient pollution. but there’s always the sky, there’s always the wind, and there’s always the trees that line the sidewalks.... and yeah. it’s february. we’re just grinding for the rest of winter, then when spring comes, it’ll be like, okay, so we’re back to serving.

the main thing is i’ll always get my eight hours of sleep.

s----- texted me saying she might go muslim soon, and i was like, 'do it, the quran is epic.' what the hell, sure, s-----, become muslim.

is not this nice? is not this nice? is not this nice...

do you think we’ve talked things through sufficiently? i’m not asking you if you think there’s more of my life needing to be examined, but whether the source wants more time to communicate.

some lines, things like isthmuses as they appear in the body. like the tissue that connects the gallbladder to the portal triad. yeah, shit, man, sure. it’s hard to conceptualize those things in real terms, since this ultrasound world is so two-dimensional. i suppose it would’ve been nice to sign myself up for something where we’re not worshiping screen all the time, but shit, man, what are you gonna do, really? what are you gonna even do...

you got this, right? i know you do. and i love you for it. you love me for it, too, i’m sure... though it’s harder for you to say it, because you don’t really talk back much... but i know you do, i feel you talking back, i hear it and i see it and i feel it, even in a place as seemingly inert as this. i hear the neighbor playing saxophone i see the night sky i see the lights of different colors in other people’s apartments — yellow, then blue, then, red. and the snow on the roof. the flowers from i--- who i might never see again. and the two lamps i picked up from the side of the road that time i went for a walk, before it got all snowy... and i see it in my memories, the likes of which i don’t need to get into right now, but we all remember.