This weekend has been particularly hard. I’ve always been more ups and downs, goods and bads. Never streamline nor simple. I think I drive myself insane with thinking. And often times I find myself agreeing with you when you say I’m fucking crazy. But we all know it’s really you, it has always been you. In more ways than one.
I thought changing up my environment would make for a more moving time (I couldn’t type that without smirking, but really I can’t come up with a better word), less crazy with the static of everything I know and even the things I don’t know that float above my head, following me everywhere I go. It didn’t. Maybe it even made things worse. But I spent the past two days across the street, in the relatively ritzy hotel that housed President Obama during the last election and maybe even the one before that. Of course this is pretty irrelevant information as it doesn’t supplement my writing in anyway other than maybe “fluff”.
I think I have the same imagination that I had when I was seven and beyond. I could think my way into any situation. I do this thing (and once I asked if you did the same. You said, “no”) I like to call “making-up my own dreams”. While I lay in bed, I create a story of a life that I would like to live, often times leading into some sort of very, uhm, adult encounter with a boy. What sort of 24 year old would I be if I weren’t making up dreams about attractive and smart boys without clothes on?
This is the sort of dreaming that gets me into trouble in my real life. So it didn’t pan out how you wanted it to? Does it ever? I walk around in a state of perpetual “why does this always happen to me?”. Of course, this sort of thinking will get you a very lengthy and boring talk from your therapist if you tell him/her. So please, be advised, keep those thoughts to yourself.
Maybe you can guess how my two night stay went using context clues from what I’ve thus far written?
"Why does this always happen to me?"
I’m sitting in a Starbucks at six corners, watching people walk by. And really when I say people I mean boys because those are the only ones I pay any attention to. It’s snowing, so of course I’m only wearing a jean jacket. I think the worst death to die would be freezing. The best? drowning.
but the mouth shaped bruises on my shoulders tell me it was real.
hey, you fucking assholes, this is my face. stop changing the source. i refuse to promote your shitty soft grunge blogs.
hypothetically speaking, if i had just desperately (& somewhat dramatically) sifted through the ashtray lying on my nightstand so as to salvage for the butts of any cigarettes that had a puff or two left… would i be considered pathetic? no? ok, good.
i’m so tired all the time. sometimes i want to sleep forever with intervals of fucking as hard as i hate myself. a frenzy of skin and limbs and mouths. sometimes i want to climb the highest staircase i can find and throw myself down them just to see if i will fall in slow motion like i do in my dreams. sometimes i think i could live off of menthol cigarettes and endless cups of coffee. sometimes i want to kiss the first boy i see and then runaway and think of all the things he could be thinking. sometimes i don’t want to think at all. sometimes i try not to think at all and i end up thinking (louder than if i hand’t tried to stop thinking), “stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking” over and over until i feel as if i’ve gone mad. i’m so fucking tired all the time.