#lovingremixed

I'm sure some metadata whiz kid could figure me out from analyzing the frequency with which I use certain tags (actually, that could be interesting), but I find that I use Tumblr more as a diary for the things that I like instead of the things that I do. For example, loving remixed​ reveals that I like the Hunger Games, feminism, and blue-green things. But I compartmentalize the things I do into ladydarwin and uhhuhgirls. Yes, you can see what I did there.

Did you know that I have a tags page? It's sort of like a master post, but better.

Mostly in the past, when I've used Tumblr as a diary, it's to process my freak outs. Perhaps I should actually document the day-to-day occurrences in my life, as well. I did use 'loving remixed gets personal' as my tag for these posts, but I seem to have purged most of the freak outs. This is also why so many of my journals have the first 20 pages torn out - I become embarrassed by how passionate I was about ordeals that seem antiquated now. Another person, foreign emotions. A recent auto straddle​ post recently convinced me to take up my (handwritten) journal again, and this time I've sworn not to delete a single page from my history.

Learning to the view the present as the not-so-distant past is very useful, in fact, for long-distance relationships. Last semester, as I was in the throes of a month-long separation, I was certain that the requirement that I attend the departmental seminar while my girlfriend was visiting me would ruin our time together and potentially lead to our relationship's demise. This is what my therapist would have called catastrophizing. In retrospect, I'm not sure she coined that term, but it's the term I now use when my anxiety leads my mind to what it considers the most logical outcome of mostly innocuous inconveniences.

Did you know, my profile picture is that of my cat, Willow, who I've known since the summer before fifth grade. I found her as a stray on the goat farm that one of my two non-biological grandmothers grew up on in rural Tennessee, and I named her after the willow tree that grew in my neighbor's front yard before they cut her down because the effort to pick up the fallen sticks was too much work for the older man who lived in the house. The veterinarian calls Willow the miracle cat, always on the brink of death but rebounding every time. She's a nine-hour drive away now, so I've had to replace her with the cat who lives in the house I rent in. Her name is Luna, and she's a foot fetishist.