[[and if this is crazy, maybe i want sane.]]
i keep watching woody allen movies.
and having panic attacks.
if anyone can tell me what i have done in the past year
or would like to put up with all my idiosyncrasies, kill my parents,
and sleep in my bed for the next three months.
tell me.
i am a muddled puddle lately. because BAM! it's the end of high school.
look around kids, who woulda thunk it? not me.
it means i need to finally do something, stop fucking around.
and figure out what i've been working on for the last 17 years.
i need to either cut my papa like my hair likes it or figure out a better way.
and not just about my hair about everything with my papa, you know?
i keep wanting to hold brian's hand throughout the whole day,
as opposed to just during 6th period.
i think i had a really nice break. but i really don't know.
that thing with russell jay really flipped me out, because
it made me think about how maybe
i have more respect for my friendships with people
than they have for them.
i don't know.
and i wish i could still eat nuts on andrew bernero's bed
and feel dirty when i took off my shirt for him.
and i was new to everyone.
i need to make things. that is IT! whoa, who coulda thought,
it's as easy as that. i need to write you a story or finally fix that zine
or maybe write a song, tune a guitar, bake a cake.
does anyone want a cake, or a girl to play sorry! with?
i dream a lot about this staircase in northsix, the one that goes up
to the roof. and about the bathroom on the second floor.
and conor gillespie. i've been thinking about conor so much it's crazy.
i dream about charlotte mouquin who wrote on my arms in seventh grade.
and tia newton and maria prestigicamo. and sue kovacs.
and i don't know
how in the hell i turned out this way.
with all of these secret and not so secret lives
and all of these people like trading cards in my pocket.
but i did, and i just need clean sheets
and a vacuum cleaner and then maybe it'll be okay.
i wrote myself a letter, and it says what i think about.
and i read it to the best girl in the world last night.
when i kept flipping out, and she is the one thing i am the most thankful for.
and i know, for her sake, all good things must come to an end.
and i know we will both grow up and down and in every direction.
and fuck yes.
i am worried that it's not getting worse or better,
it's just not getting.
but i know it is getting, or changing maybe,
and that is what worries me most.
that the change will be worse than the willow tree falling,
and that change was bad enough.
i am just thinking it all through.
and you, dearest voyeurs,
have a choice...
to read all the way through or scroll right down,
and either way it's always better in the morning.
and having panic attacks.
if anyone can tell me what i have done in the past year
or would like to put up with all my idiosyncrasies, kill my parents,
and sleep in my bed for the next three months.
tell me.
i am a muddled puddle lately. because BAM! it's the end of high school.
look around kids, who woulda thunk it? not me.
it means i need to finally do something, stop fucking around.
and figure out what i've been working on for the last 17 years.
i need to either cut my papa like my hair likes it or figure out a better way.
and not just about my hair about everything with my papa, you know?
i keep wanting to hold brian's hand throughout the whole day,
as opposed to just during 6th period.
i think i had a really nice break. but i really don't know.
that thing with russell jay really flipped me out, because
it made me think about how maybe
i have more respect for my friendships with people
than they have for them.
i don't know.
and i wish i could still eat nuts on andrew bernero's bed
and feel dirty when i took off my shirt for him.
and i was new to everyone.
i need to make things. that is IT! whoa, who coulda thought,
it's as easy as that. i need to write you a story or finally fix that zine
or maybe write a song, tune a guitar, bake a cake.
does anyone want a cake, or a girl to play sorry! with?
i dream a lot about this staircase in northsix, the one that goes up
to the roof. and about the bathroom on the second floor.
and conor gillespie. i've been thinking about conor so much it's crazy.
i dream about charlotte mouquin who wrote on my arms in seventh grade.
and tia newton and maria prestigicamo. and sue kovacs.
and i don't know
how in the hell i turned out this way.
with all of these secret and not so secret lives
and all of these people like trading cards in my pocket.
but i did, and i just need clean sheets
and a vacuum cleaner and then maybe it'll be okay.
i wrote myself a letter, and it says what i think about.
and i read it to the best girl in the world last night.
when i kept flipping out, and she is the one thing i am the most thankful for.
and i know, for her sake, all good things must come to an end.
and i know we will both grow up and down and in every direction.
and fuck yes.
i am worried that it's not getting worse or better,
it's just not getting.
but i know it is getting, or changing maybe,
and that is what worries me most.
that the change will be worse than the willow tree falling,
and that change was bad enough.
i am just thinking it all through.
and you, dearest voyeurs,
have a choice...
to read all the way through or scroll right down,
and either way it's always better in the morning.