(no subject)
Alright.
So I'm being dumb.
And selfish.
And childish.
But whatever.
Because I feel it.
Vee, sorry I dumped that shit on you.
Wow, I should really be better than this, but I'm not. I don't think I'll ever understand my obsession with being better, but it kind of floored me today in the morning when Megs was sitting on the white box and we were planning our class, and I don't even know why. Oy vey. I want to just finish this, it's so complex, and I feel like yelling all the time but I can't and I won't and I really don't want to but it's controlling me. I just want to lash out at everything that's wrong, but really it's not that much at all because nothing right now really matters...it's all so trivial and I don't even know why I worry about it...
So do I stop worrying now? Do I just cut it out? Is it that easy? I've tried to talk less these days, but it's not working. That part of me that comes out and auctions off the left-over lunch items when we were working with the Mary Poppins kids at lunch, that's who I am. That's who I want to be because that's important to me. But it's wierd, because I'm so serious sometimes too. AHHH. Nothing's funny right now, and I need it to be. It makes me uncomfortable because the breeze is blowing in the window beside me and messing with my hair and my thumb hurts from hitting the keyboard the wrong way. I've got The Good Life on repeat because it reminds me of that time that Emma and Bronny and I were just sitting around on the mainland and Andrew brought out his guitar, and we all just jumped up and started singing. Well, not really singing, but screaming. Then, when he started to play Under the Bridge, we (the girls) were singing it like, nicely and Tyler thought that it was wierd, but beautiful, because he had never heard it like that before.
Why can't I put up with this. The kids in my class have said that I look, "Like, 30!" and I'm not sure if I should take it as a compliment or critisism. I want to just live it up and be who I am, and it's not often that I spill publicly like this.
I want to complain but I have nothing to complain about, and so I am going to make a vow right here and right now (ooh, a rhyme!) that I'm never going to complain about being tired or bored anymore. Because it's not worth the energy that I could be conserving to be doing something wicked and exciting.
Stream of conciousness...like Mr. Coughlan used to tell me. When I did the Random Thoughts for the first time. Actually, the first random thoughts were to get rid of Bhreagh because she was reading as I wrote over my shoulder. haha...And to think that Mr. Coughlan's room is Mr. Hobin's room now. wierd.
yes. Wierd.
And.
Scene.
None of that was important.
Maybe, someday, if I get famous or aknowledged, or anything...somebody will find this and find me and tell me that it was important.
So I'm being dumb.
And selfish.
And childish.
But whatever.
Because I feel it.
Vee, sorry I dumped that shit on you.
Wow, I should really be better than this, but I'm not. I don't think I'll ever understand my obsession with being better, but it kind of floored me today in the morning when Megs was sitting on the white box and we were planning our class, and I don't even know why. Oy vey. I want to just finish this, it's so complex, and I feel like yelling all the time but I can't and I won't and I really don't want to but it's controlling me. I just want to lash out at everything that's wrong, but really it's not that much at all because nothing right now really matters...it's all so trivial and I don't even know why I worry about it...
So do I stop worrying now? Do I just cut it out? Is it that easy? I've tried to talk less these days, but it's not working. That part of me that comes out and auctions off the left-over lunch items when we were working with the Mary Poppins kids at lunch, that's who I am. That's who I want to be because that's important to me. But it's wierd, because I'm so serious sometimes too. AHHH. Nothing's funny right now, and I need it to be. It makes me uncomfortable because the breeze is blowing in the window beside me and messing with my hair and my thumb hurts from hitting the keyboard the wrong way. I've got The Good Life on repeat because it reminds me of that time that Emma and Bronny and I were just sitting around on the mainland and Andrew brought out his guitar, and we all just jumped up and started singing. Well, not really singing, but screaming. Then, when he started to play Under the Bridge, we (the girls) were singing it like, nicely and Tyler thought that it was wierd, but beautiful, because he had never heard it like that before.
Why can't I put up with this. The kids in my class have said that I look, "Like, 30!" and I'm not sure if I should take it as a compliment or critisism. I want to just live it up and be who I am, and it's not often that I spill publicly like this.
I want to complain but I have nothing to complain about, and so I am going to make a vow right here and right now (ooh, a rhyme!) that I'm never going to complain about being tired or bored anymore. Because it's not worth the energy that I could be conserving to be doing something wicked and exciting.
Stream of conciousness...like Mr. Coughlan used to tell me. When I did the Random Thoughts for the first time. Actually, the first random thoughts were to get rid of Bhreagh because she was reading as I wrote over my shoulder. haha...And to think that Mr. Coughlan's room is Mr. Hobin's room now. wierd.
yes. Wierd.
And.
Scene.
None of that was important.
Maybe, someday, if I get famous or aknowledged, or anything...somebody will find this and find me and tell me that it was important.