It's been a while
I signed into Livejournal to check out someone else's and according to the stats of my last entry it has been 82 weeks since i've last updated. At first, I thought alright, whatever let me go check out other people's journals and move on with my life, but I became curious, I had this urge, this incessant prodding in the back of my mind telling me to see if I was one of those, forgive me, sterotypical 'emo' kids that used livejournal as an outlet to rant and rave about the travesty that is their life. I realize now what I didn't notice before, I was worse than those bitching adolescents, I was blissfully happy and never appreciated it. I typed out entries of sheer stupidity and vindictively harming others with my falsified joy, each time I reread one of these entries I wondered what I could've been thinking, who I was, or if I even was, if I had any comprehensive thought process at all or if I was just typing away meaningless pieces of trash aimed at creating a void in my ex friendships.If you read my other entries maybe you can sense a bit of this, many of them I deleted, simply because in trying to understand who I once was I was impairing who I am now. Not in the sense of spiritual growth (whatever the fuck that consists of) but in the sense that I know who I am now, of that I'm almost positive, that girl I once was is gone. The writer in me tells me that I should analyze my character figure out why I was what I was, performed the deeds I did. This will be my one and only albeit brief attempt at doing just that before she is banished from the front of my thoughts to the abyss of the past.
I had a spontinaeity to rival a two year old, insurmountable energy, I was spirited and obsessed with petty bullshit. I spent most of my time reminiscing about jumping in puddles, talking about phone sex, and crotchless panties. Life was about living in the moment. I loved her, she inspired me, but for as many good qualities this entity possessed she was a cynical, gossip obsessed, biased, hypocritical bitch; I hated her. She magnified the smallest of faults in any personailty, she loathed everyone, even her best friends for everything they were, she sought pleasure, pleasure created through pain she inflicted on others. She condemned pot smokers, shook her head at underage drinking, and glared at the promiscuity that surrounded her.She thought she was high and mighty(Don't get me wrong often times I come off as someone unapproachable because according to my male friends I have an air of superiority about me that projects I don't want to be bothered with pathetic attempts at small talk, which indeed is true, I come off as a bitch because I have an agenda, I have a pretty secure goal and I don't need anything getting in the way of that. This doesn't mean that I want to end up some crazy cat lady, although I do love cats, but that if you're going to approach me, male or female, friend or lover I don't want someone that will need constant attention, because essentially, I live for myself.) Everyone was toxic, a poison most noxious and repulsive. As a solo artist she did not exist, for most of her memories were not her own she was a symbiotic creature feeding off of others experiences, tagging along never really making her own but projecting herself upon others. Memories existed in direct relations to her 'friends'.
I sound bitter because I am bitter, perhaps more so than I ever could've imagined.
When I began this journal entry I didn't know where it was going and I still don't. As I am writing this I am learning about myself just as much maybe more than you are as you're reading this. Well if anyone reads this besides myself, who knows. I expected to come on here and if I updated for it to be about the events of the day, of this holiday that for a Catholic girl I know next to nothing about and the injustices of my family get together. I never thought that I would be thrust into the teen of old and faced with the shock of what I at the time was blind to.
I had a spontinaeity to rival a two year old, insurmountable energy, I was spirited and obsessed with petty bullshit. I spent most of my time reminiscing about jumping in puddles, talking about phone sex, and crotchless panties. Life was about living in the moment. I loved her, she inspired me, but for as many good qualities this entity possessed she was a cynical, gossip obsessed, biased, hypocritical bitch; I hated her. She magnified the smallest of faults in any personailty, she loathed everyone, even her best friends for everything they were, she sought pleasure, pleasure created through pain she inflicted on others. She condemned pot smokers, shook her head at underage drinking, and glared at the promiscuity that surrounded her.She thought she was high and mighty(Don't get me wrong often times I come off as someone unapproachable because according to my male friends I have an air of superiority about me that projects I don't want to be bothered with pathetic attempts at small talk, which indeed is true, I come off as a bitch because I have an agenda, I have a pretty secure goal and I don't need anything getting in the way of that. This doesn't mean that I want to end up some crazy cat lady, although I do love cats, but that if you're going to approach me, male or female, friend or lover I don't want someone that will need constant attention, because essentially, I live for myself.) Everyone was toxic, a poison most noxious and repulsive. As a solo artist she did not exist, for most of her memories were not her own she was a symbiotic creature feeding off of others experiences, tagging along never really making her own but projecting herself upon others. Memories existed in direct relations to her 'friends'.
I sound bitter because I am bitter, perhaps more so than I ever could've imagined.
When I began this journal entry I didn't know where it was going and I still don't. As I am writing this I am learning about myself just as much maybe more than you are as you're reading this. Well if anyone reads this besides myself, who knows. I expected to come on here and if I updated for it to be about the events of the day, of this holiday that for a Catholic girl I know next to nothing about and the injustices of my family get together. I never thought that I would be thrust into the teen of old and faced with the shock of what I at the time was blind to.