Lovely

I hate msn. It killed my homepage. I'm not particularly happy about that. Nor am I particularly happy about how little I understand and how far I can go without someone holding my hand through playing with exponents. I'm pathetic, but I'm proud of the stupidest things. I don't care if that's not a word, I think it is.

I'm the only one who cares about whatever I'm insecure about. I'm the only one who cares if I make a spelling mistake or if I do something incorrect in the world of grammar. I'm the only one who feels shame when I catch myself doing something stupid, like making a mistake. But I make so many mistakes, I almost feel ashamed of myself all the time. I don't though, because when it happens often enough, you get used to it. Basically, I care about unimportant things and frivolous junk rather than the bigger picture or the issues at hand. The little things prevent me from doing big things.

There's this trip to a museum to see a special exhibit for King Tut's sarcophagus and all the treasures in his tomb, other miscellaneous artifacts and such. For my World History to the Sixteenth Century course, I'd have to pay $23 to go. But I don't want to go if no one that's my friend is going. There are only a hundred spots for six classes of about thirty or so, so it's first come first serve. But still. I wouldn't be enjoying it if I was alone. That's how dependent I am.

I see people and they all seem more honest than me, more confident. A little more alive. They laugh hard and execute biting sarcasm as if they'd been doing it since birth. They're emotional and they experience life. I don't, not as much. I feel jealous because people are experiencing life at its highest and they're having the time of their lives. I'm just waiting for the clock to stop ticking, biding my time. I sound like I'm really detached and it's kind of true.

I don't friends that I'm not afraid of waking in the middle of the night to talk about some stupid dream. Maybe it's because of that fear, that fear of living life like I own it that's preventing me from living it wholly and truly. I'm not in love with life, but I want to be.

Incredible

how much I think I like someone after only nine days of actual human contact.
how much that sort-of like can fuel or evolve into some kind of stalker-like obsession.
how much more I exaggerate when I'm mocking myself.
how long it takes for someone to do two stupid things.
how long it takes for me to do six stupid things.
how irresponsible the two of us are.
how guilty I will feel for screwing over that sweet, kind boy in three of my classes that's very nice even to me.
how much I'm talking about a stupid lab report that isn't even worth anything. But still.
how irritated I can be.
how self-obsessed I am.
how much I want to play music or sing it, you know, well.
how much I like Gravity by Sara Bareilles.
how much I want to be reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman.
how stupid I feel.
how loved I want to feel.
how shallow I am.
how much I'm talking about myself.
how much I want someone to read this and comfort me.