Exactly seven years ago,

on one of my old xanga sites [xanga.com/her_life], I scribbled a 918-word entry titled, "My Thursday Adventure: Escape from South Campus." I was in college. I'd gotten marvelously lost in the math and sciences building. And that humble excursion was eventful enough to write about.

In it, I say, "I hopped on to the elevator. Literally."

This made me smile. My nineteen year old self would hop into an elevator. And then blog about it.

Two days prior, I had written about a "breakthrough conversation" with my father. I wish to pieces that someone healthy and wise would have entered my life to guide me through the emotional maelstrom that would ensue.

Or maybe all of those little glitches and paper cuts and gashes in the knees were necessary. Oh, the awkward beginnings of a poet.

I have a spectacular tolerance for pain. But not in the usual sense. I react extravagantly to all pain — physical and emotional. I'm an expressive person. But I recover gracefully. And fast. I possess powers of mind-control over myself. And if I say, "Get over it," I'll get over it. (This has pissed off and confused a few exes).

Admission: I have zero purpose for writing this entry.

I'm simply waiting for my NyQuil to kick in. And I want to bury my last entry without having to privatize it.

Seven years ago, I wrote: "i have to admit i like 'her_life' as my user name because if you dare to subscribe, the xanga lords tell you that you've 'now subscribed to her life.' it just sounds beautifully eerie."

It's nice to know that I've remained consistently narcissistic in my writing. ::smug grin::

... Please don't leave me. I need your good eyeballs.