Legendary Pantaloons.
First off, a big FUCK YOU goes out to my PalmPilot for erasing my first attempt at this post. Now, I've scribed this out on paper before putting it up.
I hugged my crying mother tonight. It felt... Odd, to say the least. It's been a few months, but she still grieves for a lost friend. I can't blame her... I miss him too. It still felt strange, though. As if I'm a foriegner of comforting, an illegal immigrant in the land of Comfort. A refugee from the war-torn Angstville.
She's not the only one whose been crying. I've loosed the waterworks of the great Xeres damn too much as of late. It bothers me.
I suppose I'm just tired of being the outsider. Recently, in a meeting discussing my IB Art class, all of my fellow classmates were given a personal note from our teacher of the previous year, who has now retired. I was the only one to not get a note. Normally, this wouldn't have been enough to bring tears to my eyes, but I held Mr. Whitebread in such high regard, it hurt to see my trust in him so easily misplaced. (Yes I know I am probably over-reacting.)
I should really stop looking up to people. I disappoint myself, it's not fair to them, and it's bad for my neck.
... Though, I've always been that one kid, always apart from the crowd. Not standing out, just not joining in. I was always lingering, waiting for some kind of invitation to join in. It never came.
People still continue to ignore me. I'm not sure what it is about me that makes people talk over me, as if I'm not even there... Or just ignore me completely.
I probably deserve it. I'm obnoxious.
I remember Elementary days, where my peers scurried to and fro, with invitations and gifts being given all-around. But not to me. Never to me. I was an outcast there, but I was too stupid to realize it. I look back on it as some elaborate joke, and I'm the fall-guy. Or girl, as the case warrants.
... I was unwanted, but no one had the metaphorical balls to tell me so. I was blissful in my ignorance, until I finally realized what a lie I was living in.
All of that came flooding back to in that moment in the art room. I was too proud to cry there, so my tears were present only when I was alone. No one will see me cry. I've only cried in public once over the past few years...
I'm even uglier when I cry. I'm too much of a humanitarian to inflict my grotesque appearance on someone else when I cry.
See? Why should I look up to others? Disappointing myself is a full-time job.
I don't think I'll be sleeping tonight. It's 2:50, and my alarm is for 6. Damn.
I'm such a hopeless case. I'm so hopelessly hung up on something, I'm blinding myself to the harsh reality which is staring me in the face.
Thinking about her makes me cry, too.
... But it's okay. I'm alone, and only my reflection bears witness to my tears.
G'night.
I hugged my crying mother tonight. It felt... Odd, to say the least. It's been a few months, but she still grieves for a lost friend. I can't blame her... I miss him too. It still felt strange, though. As if I'm a foriegner of comforting, an illegal immigrant in the land of Comfort. A refugee from the war-torn Angstville.
She's not the only one whose been crying. I've loosed the waterworks of the great Xeres damn too much as of late. It bothers me.
I suppose I'm just tired of being the outsider. Recently, in a meeting discussing my IB Art class, all of my fellow classmates were given a personal note from our teacher of the previous year, who has now retired. I was the only one to not get a note. Normally, this wouldn't have been enough to bring tears to my eyes, but I held Mr. Whitebread in such high regard, it hurt to see my trust in him so easily misplaced. (Yes I know I am probably over-reacting.)
I should really stop looking up to people. I disappoint myself, it's not fair to them, and it's bad for my neck.
... Though, I've always been that one kid, always apart from the crowd. Not standing out, just not joining in. I was always lingering, waiting for some kind of invitation to join in. It never came.
People still continue to ignore me. I'm not sure what it is about me that makes people talk over me, as if I'm not even there... Or just ignore me completely.
I probably deserve it. I'm obnoxious.
I remember Elementary days, where my peers scurried to and fro, with invitations and gifts being given all-around. But not to me. Never to me. I was an outcast there, but I was too stupid to realize it. I look back on it as some elaborate joke, and I'm the fall-guy. Or girl, as the case warrants.
... I was unwanted, but no one had the metaphorical balls to tell me so. I was blissful in my ignorance, until I finally realized what a lie I was living in.
All of that came flooding back to in that moment in the art room. I was too proud to cry there, so my tears were present only when I was alone. No one will see me cry. I've only cried in public once over the past few years...
I'm even uglier when I cry. I'm too much of a humanitarian to inflict my grotesque appearance on someone else when I cry.
See? Why should I look up to others? Disappointing myself is a full-time job.
I don't think I'll be sleeping tonight. It's 2:50, and my alarm is for 6. Damn.
I'm such a hopeless case. I'm so hopelessly hung up on something, I'm blinding myself to the harsh reality which is staring me in the face.
Thinking about her makes me cry, too.
... But it's okay. I'm alone, and only my reflection bears witness to my tears.
G'night.