I shouldn't...
...need Tivo recorded episodes of Battlestar Galactica as incentive to get me into the back room to clean the ferret cage.
...need losing complete control of my life as incentive to clean the house, in an effort to regain control over something.
...be phased when the number of my Myspace friends decreases, especially when I can't even figure out who's missing.
...want to cry after receiving a new Darwin fish from my roommate for the new car I haven't found yet.
...want to cry after receiving a Thanksgiving box full of vegetarian, (mostly) organic food from my mom and sister.
...fear telling my parents about my car situation, because I am an adult who does not need their approval.
...care that she openly admitted it wasn't real, cause it's the closest thing to an apology I'll ever get.
...be just a little bitter that she's happy again, cause I really do want that for her.
...continue clinging to the pain when I am over the catalyst.
...feel guilty for saying no to something I am not capable of.
...be writing this instead of my review of the Dance Concert.
I haven't opened my real, old-fashioned, paper journal for at least two months. All my thoughts are now pixelated, recorded onto a cold, bright screen in Book Antiqua for all the internet-savvy world to see. My words are made vague for the benefit of a select few readers, diluted to the point where I sometimes barely recognize them.
It seems I am nothing, lately, without an audience.
...need losing complete control of my life as incentive to clean the house, in an effort to regain control over something.
...be phased when the number of my Myspace friends decreases, especially when I can't even figure out who's missing.
...want to cry after receiving a new Darwin fish from my roommate for the new car I haven't found yet.
...want to cry after receiving a Thanksgiving box full of vegetarian, (mostly) organic food from my mom and sister.
...fear telling my parents about my car situation, because I am an adult who does not need their approval.
...care that she openly admitted it wasn't real, cause it's the closest thing to an apology I'll ever get.
...be just a little bitter that she's happy again, cause I really do want that for her.
...continue clinging to the pain when I am over the catalyst.
...feel guilty for saying no to something I am not capable of.
...be writing this instead of my review of the Dance Concert.
I haven't opened my real, old-fashioned, paper journal for at least two months. All my thoughts are now pixelated, recorded onto a cold, bright screen in Book Antiqua for all the internet-savvy world to see. My words are made vague for the benefit of a select few readers, diluted to the point where I sometimes barely recognize them.
It seems I am nothing, lately, without an audience.