Then we'll come down, and have a hangover.
I only seem to add to my brother's irritation, my mom hasn't spoken a word to me since Friday and some mutant mosquito just bit the shit out of me.
These rooms hardly feel like home.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
I'm so interested in everyone else's lives and opinions. I wonder if its just me but I feel like everyone else has something better to say, listens to better music, has better ideas, is more talented in their talents, has better dreams and scarier nightmares, eats better food, is involved in healthier relationships, is capable of loving/hating more, and just has a better idea of who they are. I feel like such a stranger no matter where I am. I feel like an alien. I feel like all I do is observe others and then compare what I've observed to what I know about my present self only to come to the conclusion that I'm hopelessly inconsistent and offbeat. I keep so many things private and alas, I think I'm being consumed by my privacy.
A couple of days ago, I stumbled across one of my older journals. It was kept in this notebook I received in Mexico the summer of 2001. I was flipping through it when I came to this interview that I, apparently, had with myself. I'm asking about my experience with sexual abuse. It isn't long, as it seems to have gotten prematurely cut off. I was about to post it here but changed my mind.
What I wouldn't give for a really good book right now.
These rooms hardly feel like home.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
I'm so interested in everyone else's lives and opinions. I wonder if its just me but I feel like everyone else has something better to say, listens to better music, has better ideas, is more talented in their talents, has better dreams and scarier nightmares, eats better food, is involved in healthier relationships, is capable of loving/hating more, and just has a better idea of who they are. I feel like such a stranger no matter where I am. I feel like an alien. I feel like all I do is observe others and then compare what I've observed to what I know about my present self only to come to the conclusion that I'm hopelessly inconsistent and offbeat. I keep so many things private and alas, I think I'm being consumed by my privacy.
A couple of days ago, I stumbled across one of my older journals. It was kept in this notebook I received in Mexico the summer of 2001. I was flipping through it when I came to this interview that I, apparently, had with myself. I'm asking about my experience with sexual abuse. It isn't long, as it seems to have gotten prematurely cut off. I was about to post it here but changed my mind.
What I wouldn't give for a really good book right now.