I can't do it. I am tired of trying to make friends; every time seems to be a disappointment. I admire someone so much-too much, and then I actually meet them, and it doesn't work out. They're not so kind or wonderful as I thought. Mostly, they just don't want to take the time to talk to me or the effort to tell me so.
I am tired of this fast world. What's so wrong with living slowly when the fast life means you have to spare someone's feelings and your own? What's the point of life if you're so busy thinking it's too short, counting how much time you have left, to realize all the great things around you? If I could somehow retain these feelings of admiration for them, I would do it. Even if it means nothing will ever happen. Is it worth the risk of losing faith because I'm so continually disappointed? No, I can just keep thinking you're this wonderful, grand person; beyond me, but still beautiful.
I can't help my expectations. I know life would be easier without them. I know I wouldn't be so crushed when I found out you weren't the person I thought you were.
When it comes down to it, all I really want is someone who will be nice to me. And considerate.
Writing this, I've realized something that might seem fairly obvious. But up until now, it hasn't been obvious to me. I'm never going to be with someone I'm intimidated by. I'm never going to be with someone I admire so much that I'm afraid of them. Because I've put them on a pedestal; they will always fall. And maybe I knew that all along. Because that's just superficial. It's never real. Now that I actually realize this, how can I go about breaking these ties?
Daycare can suck on a huge bar of soap and then suffer blindness as a result
I don't know why, but seeing old abandoned journals makes me sad. It signifies a change. Sometimes major, sometimes very minor. Either way, they are rendered lifeless.
I was a daycare kid. I'm not going to reprimand my parents for it, but I absolutely,
absolutely hated it. The idea of being constantly supervised, having to follow someone else's rules, and being left to someone else's good graces...
In my daycare years, I:
-got my finger smashed in a car door and was taken to the ER
-was continually bossed around by my babysitter's annoying little boy who's a year and a half younger than I, mind you
-got a huge chunk of my hair cut out because some stupid kid took his toy truck and ran it up and down my head and my hair got miserably stuck in the wheels (kids are idiots)
-was questioned about the possible abusive nature of my parents when the counselors saw hickey-like welts on my arms. I had a horrid habit of sucking on my arm during class. Of course, I denied everything and said I'd fallen down the stairs
-developed the skills to draw flowers (which are about the
only thing I
ever draw,
to this day)
-missed my chance at small town fame because of some greedy little kids
-was subject to naptime, episodes of Barney, long and stifling bus rides, and nasty food and watered-down lemonade/"fruit punch"
-got the wind knocked out of me after falling through the hole in the tree fort they had
-got a bloody nose twice in one week
-got a myriad of sunburns
-got into a mud fight that permanently stained my brand new clothes
-was subject to debasement from my camp counselors
-was made to play pointless games because they thought I was sitting around in the arts and crafts area too much
-was all too often called "Beth" because some of the counselors knew my sister
-was at one point stuck in the middle of a huge pond in a canoe with several girls who were too afraid to move for fear of tipping over and being eaten by the gar in the pond, and
-was tricked into being an accessory to daycare advertisements in the Christmas parade at the prospect of getting candy to pass out and possibly smuggle into my pockets, like all the other groups did-this, unfortunately, did not happen because the counselors are thoughtless twits. The parade was a complete debacle.
Gahhh. Daycare sucked majorly.
I started thinking about the giant mountain of sand we made at Country Day daycare. We got featured in the newspaper for it. They kind of pushed me out of the way, so I wasn't actually in the pic. : (( I don't know if it's just a convenient thought, but for some reason, I specifically remember the sand mountain being
MY idea in the first place.
Some guy at Cold Stone claims he knows Don Herzfeldt. I'm not really sure I believe him, but if he really does, that would be pretty choice. After all, he's the one who started talking about Rejected, not me. That's kind of weird, eh?
Sometimes, I feel like my best friend is my ability to write. Something that's always there, always reliable. If I can just tell you, even if no one is listening, if I can just somehow justify the existence of these thoughts by writing them down, things are all right. Or will be. Because I'm fully aware of the healing effects of time; in fact, time is my chief comfort in life. And the hope that some day, things will change. Some day, things will be just as I always wanted them to be. I'm not asking for much. I'm only asking for happiness. Writing down all these things makes the past real. Writing them down keeps me from wondering exactly where yesterday went while I wasn't looking. So if I can't write...what am I supposed to do
then? Sometimes, I think I'm much more aware of my mortality than I ever realized.
Why does the past have to be real? Because I don't want to think of a day when I won't exist- not in any fashion or form. I have to leave some piece of me behind. Maybe that's why it bothers me so much that I can see myself living all alone for the rest of my life. I don't
want to be alone.
Anyone who actually reads this: I want you to know something. I want you to know that I will always, always answer the phone if you want to call me at 5 AM, with even the smallest problem or question. I will. You can try me, if you like. If you really do know I care so much, why not take advantage of that? I do care. Anything and everything you have to say matters to me.
Why do I always end up alone?
I really would like to cry.
Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence |
You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well.
An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly.
You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view.
A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary.
You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.
|
An Old Fashioned Love Song
There's no real reason to stay up. I think I'll be off to bed soon. But I've been meaning to write something for the past few days. I don't know how normal an occurence these will be, but I feel like writing more stories. Glimpses into my ideal life.
I walk over to the piano in this vast room, and I sit down and pour everything out into the keys. I sing the songs that sound so sweet in my heart, and they actually don't sound nearly as lame as I thought they did. I begin to realize something. I begin to realize the world expects so much of me, and at the same time, it's never nearly as much as I've always hoped for myself. I know that I can live this way, this image of myself that the world sees. It's not what I expected, and it's not quite up to par, but damned if I don't find a good reason to stay here for as long as I can. I may live here the rest of my life. Or something may eventually push me to fulfill my own aspirations. And damned if the world isn't more than impressed. And if it's not, at least I am.
OK. So somewhere in there it became a little bit more than fiction.
I Know the Feeling of Alone
There's no past. There's no future. Just that moment in time. He and I are sitting in a cafe somewhere, laughing over our drinks and completely comfortable. I'm with my best friend in the entire world. This moment makes me feel more normal than I've ever felt before.
I am walking alone at night. I walk over to my favorite place and have a seat. I haven't done this in a while. It hasn't been freezing for several weeks. Just like clockwork, it's freezing out tonight, and I want to go for a walk. I am very suspicious. I am poised for attack should anyone jump out at me. I am sitting against a wall, my hand making small ripples in the water. I watch as they grow outward, such a short life makes such far-reaching impressions.
I don't sleep because sleep is an indication of depression. If I go to sleep, I will never want to wake up again. Nothing says depression like waking up and wanting desperately to go back to sleep because the prospect of facing another day is too tiresome. How many days can we go through these same routines without a breakdown? How long before your breather becomes an addiction? A quick cigarette becomes 2 packs a day. Suddenly, the smoke is choking you, and you're gasping your life away. But I find a soothing lullaby, the last number of the night, and figure it's time to retire. Because I'm not saving myself any grief this way either.
These Scars
There is a scar on my right wrist. I keep putting it off; I never really have time to think on it. Where is it from? I do not recall any injury there, or on the left arch of my eye, where there is a little scar. My body is a foreign plain. I have never seen the beauty mark on my neck before. Or the strange one on the palm of my right hand. This body seems so strange.
Sometimes, when I'm just sitting, letting my mind drift, it drifts away onto other foreign plains. I feel like I'm someone else, like the boy sitting across the room. How can I be inside his mind? But I come back into my own soon enough, and it's very odd. I feel like, maybe for just a moment, I see myself as the world sees me.
I'd still really like to know where all these scars came from.
the yet unexplainable pattern of individuality
I'm sitting alone in a group of lonely introverts, in a tiny corner of the dining hall. There are tables in the center of everything, all busy with the flow of conversation. I'm hiding in the corner ashamed, just a little bit, of my solitude. What happened to being grown up and realizing all of the sudden that all that status stuff was stupid? Where is
that right now? If we've always, constantly felt the same way, why is it that the schema even exists? Growing up doesn't seem to dignify any of it, any of the "independence" you now have, you've
earned through the years. Our society's structure welcomes community, and casts a less than pleasant palor over solidarity among singles. That's why I still feel like a little kid in a big world, sitting at a table too big for me with a space too big and too empty. What would happen if these floods of people infiltrated our comfortable little realm? Would we flock elsewhere, to other dark corners of the world? I should think so.
My brain is now trafficking through all the situations that welcome the single lifestyle, and I'm baffled by our individuality--our double-edged sword; that which has the capacity to both unify and isolate.
