Meet Me in the Middle
Recently, I've come to saying things such as, "You're a terrible person" and "They need to be banished from the human race." I also say "Your mom [continue thread]..." and to mix things up, "Your face..."
It's despicable.
Sometimes I think I really mean to tell that to myself.
In Core, we are working on our own eulogies. Thankfully, my mother, that wonderful woman who may at times drive me mad, cheered me up (until, being the materialistic brat I allow myself to be, my J. Crew dress I love with a passion was changed to strapless... but that's a different story) and so did Murrie when he wrote a little eulogy for me too. But here I am, again attemping to write my own morbid death speech. And I can't. I actually cannot bring myself to dream big. Because although I have always been a dreamer, it's really that I live daily in this sort of dream (fucking Descartes), and I'm worried that it'll just turn for the worse - that my dreamy days will turn into nightmares, or rather daymares...
It's like I've let myself go. And I'm only sixteen. I feel old. I keep wanting to blame this elderly feeling on my new haircut because it's come to my attention that it is very mom-like. In addition to support this argument, I took two ten year-olds to Chicken Little on a Saturday night in a mini-van. When thinking about what my life has come up to now, I start shaking. I can't breathe easily. I put so much time and effort into certain aspects of my life that I love, but now it feels... wasted.
If I were to die tomorrow, or maybe wake up in a vat of goo follwing the Descartes business, what would my life be made up of?
Would you miss me?
Or would I be that stupid, annoying girl who thinks she's brilliant and exaggerates and uses the same ugly phrases too much?
I'm glad people can say I'm nice or something along those lines. But is that it? Am I only that girl in school who is nice?
Is there anything more to me than what is obvious to others?
In thirty years from now, will I be remembered?
Not on a large scale, by the way, just to you, dear reader.
Will you, my friend, remember me in thiry years?
WHY?
It's despicable.
Sometimes I think I really mean to tell that to myself.
In Core, we are working on our own eulogies. Thankfully, my mother, that wonderful woman who may at times drive me mad, cheered me up (until, being the materialistic brat I allow myself to be, my J. Crew dress I love with a passion was changed to strapless... but that's a different story) and so did Murrie when he wrote a little eulogy for me too. But here I am, again attemping to write my own morbid death speech. And I can't. I actually cannot bring myself to dream big. Because although I have always been a dreamer, it's really that I live daily in this sort of dream (fucking Descartes), and I'm worried that it'll just turn for the worse - that my dreamy days will turn into nightmares, or rather daymares...
It's like I've let myself go. And I'm only sixteen. I feel old. I keep wanting to blame this elderly feeling on my new haircut because it's come to my attention that it is very mom-like. In addition to support this argument, I took two ten year-olds to Chicken Little on a Saturday night in a mini-van. When thinking about what my life has come up to now, I start shaking. I can't breathe easily. I put so much time and effort into certain aspects of my life that I love, but now it feels... wasted.
If I were to die tomorrow, or maybe wake up in a vat of goo follwing the Descartes business, what would my life be made up of?
Would you miss me?
Or would I be that stupid, annoying girl who thinks she's brilliant and exaggerates and uses the same ugly phrases too much?
I'm glad people can say I'm nice or something along those lines. But is that it? Am I only that girl in school who is nice?
Is there anything more to me than what is obvious to others?
In thirty years from now, will I be remembered?
Not on a large scale, by the way, just to you, dear reader.
Will you, my friend, remember me in thiry years?
WHY?