(no subject)
I only act like that because I'm insecure.
It's because I'm terrified of something I can't pin down. I don't want to risk trusting people and goddamn if I know why. I don't want to risk liking people. But it feels so, so good to have someone come along and just tug me back out of my solipsist black hole. The shock of it all makes me want to remodel the whole Universe.
Someone who is not me sent The Economist my name and address for a 6-month trial offer. I know it didn't cost you anything, whoever you are, but thank you! I wanted to subscribe to some real magazines, ever since I saw one of Murakami's short stories in an issue of The New Yorker in my psychiatrist's office.
I'm also looking at The Atlantic, Harper's, Dissent, Good, Seed, and all the Scientific American-brand magazines. I just really, really like getting mail, I guess.
Something in me has to grow or force its way out, and it is absolutely aching now, all day it has and it's scrabbling against the inside of my head searching for an outlet I know I know.
So how about this. How about this summer I sign up for the program that gets me free passes to art exhibitions or theater productions and teaches me to review them. How about I do that and driver's ed and work. And in the meanwhile my father wants to strip out the house, tear off the carpets and lay down hardwood, knock down walls and replace everything.
Gosh. I don't feel lonely now.
It's because I'm terrified of something I can't pin down. I don't want to risk trusting people and goddamn if I know why. I don't want to risk liking people. But it feels so, so good to have someone come along and just tug me back out of my solipsist black hole. The shock of it all makes me want to remodel the whole Universe.
Someone who is not me sent The Economist my name and address for a 6-month trial offer. I know it didn't cost you anything, whoever you are, but thank you! I wanted to subscribe to some real magazines, ever since I saw one of Murakami's short stories in an issue of The New Yorker in my psychiatrist's office.
I'm also looking at The Atlantic, Harper's, Dissent, Good, Seed, and all the Scientific American-brand magazines. I just really, really like getting mail, I guess.
Something in me has to grow or force its way out, and it is absolutely aching now, all day it has and it's scrabbling against the inside of my head searching for an outlet I know I know.
So how about this. How about this summer I sign up for the program that gets me free passes to art exhibitions or theater productions and teaches me to review them. How about I do that and driver's ed and work. And in the meanwhile my father wants to strip out the house, tear off the carpets and lay down hardwood, knock down walls and replace everything.
Gosh. I don't feel lonely now.