(no subject)
I'm rereading Anna's e-mail, detailing her amazing travels through Italy, her visit to the Sistine Chapel, her upcoming weekend with friends on the Italian Riviera, while my mother nags me to help her unload the groceries. It's not that I'm even unhappy- I'm not really, regardless of how sorry for myself I may feel at any given moment- I just feel like I'm missing out on, well, life. It's not that I'm even lonely, I don't think it's really possible for me to feel the absence of another, specific person in my life since I've never had someone there to begin with. So, no, I don't feel lonely in the general sense of the term, but maybe I just feel lacking, like I'm missing some sort of fulfillment that a person should have experienced by the age of twenty. I think I have a Narcissus complex. Seriously, I spend an inordinate amount of time starting at my face in the mirror. Maybe because I've never had anyone else's face to really look into. Or maybe I'm just vain. Oh, another Friday night at home alone, sitting on my bed listening to the quivering ache of Billie Holiday's romantic despair.
Today I spritzed perfume on my wrists, even though I probably won't leave the air conditioned solace of my house, because I like the faint whiff of flowery sex I catch when my hand brushes the hair away from my face.
I miss Will. I mean, I'm always sort of missing everyone I've ever loved, but right now, I'm especially missing him.
Today I spritzed perfume on my wrists, even though I probably won't leave the air conditioned solace of my house, because I like the faint whiff of flowery sex I catch when my hand brushes the hair away from my face.
I miss Will. I mean, I'm always sort of missing everyone I've ever loved, but right now, I'm especially missing him.