Down and down we go, all around we go. Loving that spin, loving that spin I'm in.
There's a storm outside my window tonight, and all my troubles are inside.
I watched the OC last night and didn't care two shits about it. Oddly enough. I'm very much one of those kids who gets all excited for it and times dinner so that it's ready when the show comes on. I get upset when people talk during the show almost as much as I used to get during Sex and the City.
I go through phases, like with carrots: I'll buy baby carrots, inisist on my mother getting baby carrots at the store, because they're sweeter and easier to eat, and less maintenance because you don't have to scrape them. Then I'll rebel and not eat carrots at all for a year, and then the next thing I know, I can't stand to buy baby carrots. The big long ones in the huge ass, heavy, ten-ton bags of carrots you get at jewel are much more economical, and the flavor, though perhaps less sweet is all the more refreshing. I won't buy baby carrots any more I just won't do it. I'm munching on the big kind of carrot right now...they're all disgusting. They're bitter, and I hate having to scrape them. I'm going back to baby carrots.
I'm afraid my mother's developing alzheimers. Or rather, I wasn't afraid, but one of my mom's gossipy little friends was, and so she told me. She sat me down one day when I mistakenly asked her if I could use her internet connection because my parents are still using dial-up, and she sat me down after mom left the room and asked me if I'd noticed anything recently that was troubling my mom. I said no. She said she and all their friends were a little concerned for my mother's mental health, and I wanted her to go to hell. But I didn't tell her that.
I attract jerks. I scare nice boys. I'm asexual myself. I rest my case.
Actually, I don't: My aunt's sixty and has still never kissed a man, though she dreams one day of walking down the aisle to Handel's "Watermusic." My sister married a nerd, she's very happy, but she's also becoming more and more of a doofus everyday under his influence. My other sister's lonely. She just turned twenty-nine. Ok, now I'm done.
I've come to the horrible conclusion that theater was a waste of my time and my college education. Thank god I'm double majoring, but I would have liked something solid to go behind yet another major people would call "unstable". I like to write, but I've never really written anything. My problem is plot. I love character construction, but I can never think up a story line. My problem is character development, I'm great with description, I can beautifully describe a person, but I can't give them words to speak.
I don't speak, I stutter.
My apartment is beautiful and cold. I guess it could be like the house we're trying so desperately to sell. My Style in Literature professor wants us to write an essay on going home. Home is different from house is different from--
I'm hungry and I couldn't get reservations for anything before eight o'clock.
I need a filling, but the dentist doesn't have time for me in the year of 2005.
I'm excited because it's been months since I've talked to Tom and he e-mailed me again, telling me not to be a stranger. I have that affect on people, they always feel the need to remind me that, "you know....we Can be friends...."
I'm awkward, can you tell.
That's an actual quote, actually. The actually actual answer to that actually is I use that word way to often.
I like the shoes that I've picked out for this evening. Tapscott's meeting me in two minutes for Cosi.
Sincerely yours.
I watched the OC last night and didn't care two shits about it. Oddly enough. I'm very much one of those kids who gets all excited for it and times dinner so that it's ready when the show comes on. I get upset when people talk during the show almost as much as I used to get during Sex and the City.
I go through phases, like with carrots: I'll buy baby carrots, inisist on my mother getting baby carrots at the store, because they're sweeter and easier to eat, and less maintenance because you don't have to scrape them. Then I'll rebel and not eat carrots at all for a year, and then the next thing I know, I can't stand to buy baby carrots. The big long ones in the huge ass, heavy, ten-ton bags of carrots you get at jewel are much more economical, and the flavor, though perhaps less sweet is all the more refreshing. I won't buy baby carrots any more I just won't do it. I'm munching on the big kind of carrot right now...they're all disgusting. They're bitter, and I hate having to scrape them. I'm going back to baby carrots.
I'm afraid my mother's developing alzheimers. Or rather, I wasn't afraid, but one of my mom's gossipy little friends was, and so she told me. She sat me down one day when I mistakenly asked her if I could use her internet connection because my parents are still using dial-up, and she sat me down after mom left the room and asked me if I'd noticed anything recently that was troubling my mom. I said no. She said she and all their friends were a little concerned for my mother's mental health, and I wanted her to go to hell. But I didn't tell her that.
I attract jerks. I scare nice boys. I'm asexual myself. I rest my case.
Actually, I don't: My aunt's sixty and has still never kissed a man, though she dreams one day of walking down the aisle to Handel's "Watermusic." My sister married a nerd, she's very happy, but she's also becoming more and more of a doofus everyday under his influence. My other sister's lonely. She just turned twenty-nine. Ok, now I'm done.
I've come to the horrible conclusion that theater was a waste of my time and my college education. Thank god I'm double majoring, but I would have liked something solid to go behind yet another major people would call "unstable". I like to write, but I've never really written anything. My problem is plot. I love character construction, but I can never think up a story line. My problem is character development, I'm great with description, I can beautifully describe a person, but I can't give them words to speak.
I don't speak, I stutter.
My apartment is beautiful and cold. I guess it could be like the house we're trying so desperately to sell. My Style in Literature professor wants us to write an essay on going home. Home is different from house is different from--
I'm hungry and I couldn't get reservations for anything before eight o'clock.
I need a filling, but the dentist doesn't have time for me in the year of 2005.
I'm excited because it's been months since I've talked to Tom and he e-mailed me again, telling me not to be a stranger. I have that affect on people, they always feel the need to remind me that, "you know....we Can be friends...."
I'm awkward, can you tell.
That's an actual quote, actually. The actually actual answer to that actually is I use that word way to often.
I like the shoes that I've picked out for this evening. Tapscott's meeting me in two minutes for Cosi.
Sincerely yours.