(no subject)
I'm pretty sure I am insane.
I just spent the last couple of hours reading snippets of poetry, songs, and drug-induced letters about my depression written between November '99 and December '02 and have concluded two things: 1) middle schoolers should not be allowed to express themselves creatively and 2) time progression is fucking surreal.
I can't get over it. Reading songs I wrote about penguins dropping acid (which I thought was so fucking clever at the time) in the living room at 6 am while my boyfriend snores in our bed in the next room trips me up. Yesterday morning, I made his best friend, who had crashed on our couch, coffee and I nearly laughed out loud at how domestic it was. I'm a child. I should be eating my mother's oatmeal in a house in the suburbs, and yet it's the child part of me that smiles inwardly when I find myself doing "grown up" things. I don't even know why I am writing this other than to document what a strange feeling I have right now. How old am i?
I just spent the last couple of hours reading snippets of poetry, songs, and drug-induced letters about my depression written between November '99 and December '02 and have concluded two things: 1) middle schoolers should not be allowed to express themselves creatively and 2) time progression is fucking surreal.
I can't get over it. Reading songs I wrote about penguins dropping acid (which I thought was so fucking clever at the time) in the living room at 6 am while my boyfriend snores in our bed in the next room trips me up. Yesterday morning, I made his best friend, who had crashed on our couch, coffee and I nearly laughed out loud at how domestic it was. I'm a child. I should be eating my mother's oatmeal in a house in the suburbs, and yet it's the child part of me that smiles inwardly when I find myself doing "grown up" things. I don't even know why I am writing this other than to document what a strange feeling I have right now. How old am i?