I feel good today. I am calm and relaxed. I love my boyfriend and do not hate my work. I'm very excited to be living by myself again, and I'm reading more positive things lately.
My biggest problem with the boyfriend is myself. I've noticed, over the years, that this is always the case, but in this instance its more about him them me. Let me explain. No, there is too much, let me sum up: I need to relax, a lot, with him. I am quite a mean person, and although I don't want him to do some of the things he does, I think that instead of just being passive aggressive about it I should just organize my time with him better- that us time is us time, and that there isn't too much of that. This also ties in with the fact that I need to spend more time with my sister, and having him around just isn't really the same, and he doesn't really like hanging out with my sister (which I can understand, but if he would get off his ass and get a car it wouldn't be much of a problem). We will be living next door to eachother, but I would really like to partition off my time there, as well. I need to be alone, a few days of the week, and although it may seem cold to him, nights when I get off work I will probably just give him a goodnight kiss and then hop off to my own bed; and when he calls to see what I'm doing, if I'm doing homework I'll tell him so, and tell him that I need to be alone or that I can't hang out for too long.
What can I say, I'm kind of a hateful bitch. Some people could do this in warmer ways than I can. I'm just not naturally warm, and I'm scared that if I ask for what I want in a warm way, I won't get it (contrary to past experience).
On to lighter matters...
I'm currently reading Les Miserables. I don't know what it is, but the authors I most enjoy are 19th Century French. If I knew more about history I could draw some really pedantic conclusions, so if anyone in the world out there would like to brutally comment on my boring life, go on.
I feel much better when reading Les Mis. I've read the first four hundred pages three or four times (au moins), and the simple literary cheese gets me every time. Selected excerpts:
"What more was needed by this old man, who divided the leisure hours of his life, where he had so little leisure, between gardening in the daytime and contemplation at night? Was this narrow enclosure with the sky for a background not space enough for him to adore God in his most beautiful, most sublime works? Indeed, is that not everything?What more do you need? A little garden to walk in, and immensity to reflect on. At his feet something to cultivate and gather; above his head something to study and meditate on; a few flowers on earth and all the stars in heaven."

"He recognized he was not an innocent man unustly punished. He acknowledged he had committed an extraordinary and reprehensible act; that the loaf might not have been refused him, if he had asked for it; that in any even it would have been better to wait, either for pity or for work; that it is not altogether an unanswerable reply to say, 'Could I wait when I was hungry?"; that, in the first place, it is very rare that anyone dies of actual hunger; and that, fortunately or unfortunately, man is so made that he can suffer long and hard, morally and physically, without dying; that he should, therefore, have had patience; that that would have been better even for the poor little ones; that it was an act of folly in him- a poor, worthless man- to grab all of society forcibly by the collar and imagine he could escape from misery by theft; that, in any event, it was a bad door for getting out of misery, by entering into infamy; in short, that he had done wrong.
Then he asked himself if he were not the only one who had done wrong in the course of his disastrous story. If, in the first place, it was not a serious thing that he, a workman, could not have found work and he, an industrious man, should have been without bread. If, moreover, the fault committed and confessed, the punishment had not been cruel and excessive. If there were not a greater abuse on the part of the law, in the penalty, than there had been, on the part of the guilty, in the crime. If there were not too much weight on one side of the scales- on the side of expiation. If the excess of the penalty were not the eradication of the crime; and if the result were not the reversal of the situation, replacing the wrong of the delinquent with the wrong of the repression, to make a victim of the guilty, and a creditor of the debtor, and actually to out the right on the side of the one who had violated it. If that penalty, in conjunction with its successive extensions for his attempted escapes, were not finally a sort of outrage of the stronger on the weaker, a crime of society on the individual, a crime committed afresh every day, a crime that was committed for nineteen years.
He asked himself whether human society could rightfully make its member submit equally, in the one case by its unreasonable carelessness and in the other by its pitiless care; and to hold a poor man forever between a lack and an excess, a lack of work, an excess of punishment.
If it was not outrageous that society should treat with such rigid precision those of its members who were most poorly endowed in the chance distribution of wealth and were therefore most deserving of its tolerance.
With these questions asked and answered, he condemned society and sentenced it.
He sentenced it to his hatred.
He made it responsible for his fate, and promised himself that he perhaps would not hesitate someday to call it to account. He declared to himself that there was no equity between the injury he had committed and the injury committed on him; he concluded, in short, that his punishment was not merely an injustice, but, beyond all doubt, a gross injustice.
Anger may be foolish and absurd, and one may be wrongly irritated, but a man never feels outraged unless in some respect he is fundamentally right. Jean Valjean felt outraged."


And etcetera.....