INDIEchouette

Today, I’m extremely sick, disgusting, disgusted, and generally unhealthy.  I don’t even feel like doing anything.  I just sit around and stare at something until I realize I have to move.  My ears feel blocked, but hypersensitive.  I’m sniffling a lot, and there’s tons of disgusting mucus in my throat, which reminds me of that commercial with the green 3-D mucus blob living in some dude’s throat.  I have a headache, and my head’s very sensitive, and I’m occasionally dizzy, so I’m afraid to walk down the stairs.  When I walk, it feels like my body has a bunch of built-up momentum, so I can’t control my speed or direction, and thus, I walk into things.  I keep coughing and drinking soda and other fluids, and eating cough drops even though Halls cough drops make me want to puke because they’re too minty.  I couldn’t bring myself to shower yesterday because I was seriously afraid I’d suffocate in the shower steam.  The worst part of being this ill is that my mother seems to have no clue how sick I really am, that I can’t walk right, that I’m dizzy…she expects me to do all this shit around the house…”Let Louie out” when I’m not conscious enough to keep an eye on him and prevent him from being buffeted and killed by cats, “Clean your room/pick your clothes up off the floor” when I’m too dizzy to bend over without falling over completely, “Stop coughing” when it’s just a given of being sick.  And she publicly accuses me of being addicted to NyQuil, “jokingly,” naturally, because there’s a full and pretty old bottle of it in my room because I occasionally get night coughs, which bug the shit out of her, so she makes me take it.  I hate that bullshit (not NyQuil, her “ha-ha funny” accusations and lack of understanding).  She acts pissed off at me, but I haven’t been genuinely cold or barf sick for about three years, I guess because I have a pretty sweet immune system.  And now this, this is the worst sick I’ve been since I was about four or five years old and had to go to the emergency room for a coughing fit.  I don’t even feel alive.  And, oh yeah, I’m having severe separation anxiety, which would be at least partially cured by me not needing to be quarantined and recovering.

I need to get a shower now.  It feels like someone dumped a bucket of pizza grease directly on the crown of my head.  It’s gross.

Yesterday was an amazing day that ended in me having the munchies and likely regaining the seven or eight pounds I’d lost since break began. Just kidding, sort of, but I know I’ve gained weight since we left Virginia. Plus, I woke up with a sore throat, and for some reason, whenever I have a sore throat, I fell barftastic.

Anywho, the Guitar Hero II festivities were scheduled to start at 7, but first, Nick and Sean really wanted to get some chicken wings at the Lewisburg Hotel, where they have an in-house special where you can get wings for 25 cents each on Thursdays. Rachael and I were bored out of our skulls, so we went along with them, venturing probably a mile into Lewisburg to the hotel just to get chicken wings. Sean kept scaring the shit out of Rachael by telling her, “This is the (second/third/fourth/sixtieth) scariest street in Lewisburg!” Which, of course, she was acting a good deal and likely not even frightened one bit, but for flirtatious effect, had to act “girly,” gullible, and stupid. That’s something I’ve vowed never to do ever again–change or belittle myself for the satisfaction of other people. I mean, honestly, they’re going to find out what you’re really like eventually. Why not just tell them the truth? That’s not to say you can’t be mysterious about the truth, just that you shouldn’t try to make yourself seem interesting with lies.

Well. We got the wings, and Sean dropped them on the sidewalk, so I carried them back to the house, and he and Nick were making fun of me because it’s ironic that I’m vegetarian and was forced to carry the wings, when I wasn’t even going to eat them.

At about 7, a few sticklike boys who looked 14 and 15 poured into the house, and not much later, some guys who looked older than me showed up. They were all n00bs. Rachael and I pwned their asses, mostly. There was a lot of fun-poking by Shannon, who was convinced that Rachael and I were in love with about half of them, which was obviously completely true, since I am definitely an advocate of the Sims 2 Romance lifestyle of having more than one love at once. Naturally. Oh, and it turned out that the kids who looked 14 or 15 were actually 16 and 17. It’s queer how off my age-guessing skills are when we’re not in Richmond.

After everyone left the party, I got the munchies, and Sean and I got on Runescape. He’s been playing for a grand total of two months, and he’s a level 54. What a n00b. When I got off Runescape, he got into nerd mode, where he talked to the computer, yelled at it, screamed at it, and yelled things like “Stab stab stab!” and “I needeth one more motherfuckingeth coineth!” His face was, quite literally, one inch away from the computer screen. I thought I was going to die laughing.

I couldn’t stay up, though, because of my sneezy sickness, so I went to sleep in the family room and left everyone else on the porch. A few minutes after I fell asleep, I heard hysterical laughing on Sean’s, Nick’s, and Rachael’s part, which woke me up. And I felt my head, to find a fistful of spaghetti in my hair. Once I’d chucked that across the room, I went back to sleep, only to be awoken again…when I found a bone from one of the wings in my hair. After I took that out, Sean kept replacing it. He then took the cold spaghetti and put it on my mom’s blanket, and she picked it up and threw it at him, and it hit his room’s door and stuck to it, which gave him and Nick a good giggle.

Honestly, though, I hate the way Rachael acts when we’re here, like there’s nothing to do but pick on me, and it’s only fun when Sean and Nick are making fun of me, too. Do I ever pick on her around Sean and Nick or strangers? Do I bring up embarrassing childhood or recent stories about her? Do I make fun of her body? No, I don’t. That’s not the way I operate, ever. I wish someone she admires would point that out to her and get her to fucking stop it, because the way she runs things is really low.

Mmk, I’m going to go put some food in Sean’s and Nick’s hair.

Instead of staying crammed in at Granddad’s all day, we ventured over to the Woods’ house.  I kept sneezing all day, which is unusual for me, since I don’t have any allergies.  I must have a cold.  Ugh.  Anyways, the kids had to go to their dad’s place at 5, so Aunt Katie took me and Rachael to Fuddrucker’s for dinner.  I hate the very idea of an ostrich burger; it pisses me off…but their veggie burgers are fantastic.  As in really yummy.  Again, I kept thinking of Richmond, because Fuddrucker’s reminds me of Cheeburger Cheeburger, and Neil Diamond reminds me of Nick Drake (same initials, not the sound), and Nick Drake reminds me of Garden State, and in turn, Garden State reminds me of two people: Erika and Derek, who are coincidentally probably the two people I miss most.  I’m getting fat from eating so well here; before at home, I only had one small meal a day, and here, I have two or three good-sized meals.  Hopefully, that will stop tomorrow, but right now, I’m a little hungry.  Maybe I should drink some olive oil.  Sean did that a few days ago and shat out the entire contents of his stomach.  Yum.  Actually, at this point, that might be a little refreshing.

Thank God Alexa’s sleeping at the Connors place tonight, though.  She was getting annoying, to say the least.  Rachael and I don’t get along ever in
Pennsylvania, but at least we can somewhat relate to one another, in our ideals.  Of course, this time, Rachael wants to stay in and be boring, and I have a thick desire to go out to the mall.  Ugh.

It’s Erika’s birthday, by the way. You know. “E-Dawg.” This is supposed to be a shout-out, but it’s turning out like Yu-Ghii-Oh. GHII. Harhar. That was inappropriate and wasted. Ugh. I miss her.

I rode on Alexa’s electric scooter, which goes I think up to 10 mph. It’s pretty fast, pretty breathtaking, and incredibly queer. I’m sick, but it’s the kind of cold where I just sneeze a lot and get a few headaches. Nothing too intense. I want to go out, to the mall. I’ve never wanted to go in public so badly.

My desire to see Derek escalates by the second. I can’t stand being here. I at least want to be at home, “home,” in Virginia. I’d have an internet connection over there, so I could communicate with people even if I sat at home all day every day. Ughh. I hate sniffling.

Gahd, I was grumpy last night because I had to sleep in the family room with all the good glory of Rachael, Alexa, Sean, and Shannon, all of whom were “not tired” and definitely not intent on sleeping.  I went up half a level to sleep in the room my mom was in, and finally fell asleep.  At maybe 4 am, I sneezed out the entire contents of my nose, and that almost caused Rachael to barf on the spot.  The good thing?  I’m not sick, and I didn’t throw up.  The bad thing?  Being cramped inside all day definitely isn’t my idea of fun.  I want to go to the mall.

Oh, and for now, I’m way sick of Guitar Hero II.  We’ve been playing it multiplayer nonstop for the past few days, and now, I either need some alone time with my career mode, or I just can’t play it.  This day is going to suck hxc.

At the Connors place, I felt some severe hostility towards my mother, probably mainly because of her absence.  Rachael and I spent a good majority of our time with our older, legal cousins Erin and Dan, plus some younger cousins.  We ended the evening in playing Spoons and Tongues with all our little girl cousins, plus Erin and Dan.

I don’t really think my father understands how much of an age gap there is between me and my next cousin in age, much less between even me and Rachael.  It’s like he doesn’t know I’m sixteen and horrible with children.  I half-think he expects me to get down on all fours and pretend I’m a cat, like my six-year-old cousins were doing.

As for my grandmother, she can’t take me seriously, I think mainly because she knows I’m so much like my mother, such a mommy’s girl, and she may even know that I’m practically acting as the biased mediator in this situation.  She inquired about Derek, half-seriously, and I couldn’t think of any adjectives to describe him but “nice.”  But it’s not because I only think of him as “nice;” I just didn’t feel like telling her because I knew she wouldn’t care or take me as entirely serious as I am.  I can’t sum him up in a few words; there’s a whole story behind how I know him and how we’ve gotten to this point.  I knew she wouldn’t be intent on hearing it, or else she’d think I’m some crazy teenager.  Because with that side of the family, it’s “been there, done that.”  Everyone automatically has to know what you’re talking about.  If you’re in a teen relationship, well, man, you’ll be out of that lickety-split in a few days or a month.  You’re also the stereotypical irresponsible teenager who’s going to make all bad choices until you hit 21 or 23.  I don’t get it, and I don’t like it.  In fact, I hate it.  I can’t stand that attitude.  At least on my mom’s side, everyone can relate to the teenagers, because it’s a new experience.  They’re not necessarily giving advice and preaching.  They’re listening to your story.

At this point in my life, I hate talking about colleges.  I’m a junior.  I couldn’t get into an Ivy League school if I wanted to.  I want to go to Canada or the Midwest for college.  I want to write, maybe for a magazine.  I have no idea what exactly I’m going to do with my life, except the here and the now, which is high school, band, hang out, watch movies.  Live.  I know I would love to visit Canada and meet cultured people who think I’m interesting, because it seems like most people I meet have the same old life story as me, and thus, they’re not interested.  And hopefully, when I meet more of these people, some of their culture will rub off on me.  I’m not old enough to do any of that yet.  I’m not ready.

Aah, I miss Derek.  If he reads this, I imagine he’ll be way embarrassed.  Or not?  I feel so lame for coming out and saying it, especially on day two without him immediately close, but I’m not going to be able to see him for over a week, unless I get called to London on special business to be near him.  And really, he beats (pwns) my family on the interesting scale.  I miss being appreciated, and I miss appreciating, because my family doesn’t appreciate me, and I reciprocate their lack of appreciation.  I’m having the most intense form of separation anxiety, where if my mind’s not busy, I think immediately about the last movie we saw, or of songs that remind me of him.  Or I’ll listen to those songs that remind me of him.  I feel like crying, but that might just be lack of sleep catching up on me; I’m damn tired.

I also miss Erika insanely, what with her also being out of the country, and it’s odd not being able to communicate with her much, considering that normally when I’m in a pickle of some sort, I’ll tell her every last godforsaken detail, and instead of minding like most people would, she appreciates it.  Nowadays, I keep everything to myself, and it gets built up, I guess, so I need to tell separate people separate details, which is inconvenient.  Bedtime.

Rachael. Ugh. She tries too hard. I hate it. She takes her personality and multiplies it to make fun of me, because she’s aware that nobody knows her bitchy, stupid home self. She doesn’t do this with her friends, either—just with me and family and Lewi kids. I get the distinct impression that Lewisburg is going to suck.

I’m also having separation anxiety from several people right now, and MySpace/Meebo separation anxiety (lolz, laugh all you want, bitches, but that’s my form of communication without a cellular device), which doesn’t make any of this easy. I’m lethargic and extremely sad—but not for the same reasons as for years past (being lonely). I’m sad because I can’t see the people I love most. Also, Elizabeth is sick. So I’m bored out of my fucking skull, and we’re headed to 1290 soon, and I don’t want to fucking go, because my mom’s not going to be there, and I know how the Connors people are—we’re going to fucking stare at each other for an eternity while they try to make fucking small talk, and Rachael and Alexa and I will sit next to each other, cramped on a couch for the painfully pointless interrogation, and Rachael will likely complain silently about me sitting too close to her, and we’ll mentally punch one another until she goes off and plays with the younger cousins (on that side of the family, I have no cousins remotely near my own age within four years in either direction, except for a step-cousin in New Mexico who is my same age and my polar opposite—helpful, kind, and outgoing), leaving me to rot on a couch or some other halfhearted business. I’ll attempt to avoid going to the bathroom because that house is so…grimy…and I’ll count down the seconds until my mom’s coming to get me, and maybe steal my dad’s cell phone to call her. I’ll try not to puke or eat anything. That time Liz and I went there for Independence Day, we attempted to have some Coke, but when we drank it, it felt like drinking bile or extreme backwash, and we both almost puked. It turns out that it was from a Christmas two years ago. Enough said.

FUCKING A, I also have to write what I got for Christmas from my grandmother, if I get anything (I’m not present-oriented this year; I honestly couldn’t care less if I got gifts—I want to see EDawg and the triad and Derek and Liz), because she always gets me the most bizarre, not-fitting gifts, like boys’ humongous tee shirts because she thinks I still “like to wear baggy clothes” even though I’m not fat anymore, or frilly fleecy pink, well, fleece jackets from Old Navy that are either two sizes too small or (more often) too sizes too large. Or ugly children’s jewelry. Or pretzels from BJs. Just kidding about that last part, but serious about the BJs part; she shops there.

Oh yeah, and I’m gradually feeling more and more sick to the stomach as the day goes by. I think that steel stomach thing is wrong. Great. That’s likely why I feel anti-game for going to 1290. Fuck.

PS I love Sufjan Stevens’ album, “Illinoise.” Most especially track 3. It’s one of those songs that can make anything, even watching cousins play GHII, seem not just nice, but beautiful.

It looked like Santa had thrown a few elves down our gas fireplace so they could shit out presents and pre-ripped wrapping paper for me, Rachael, and Alexa. Not that I’d know, since I got up late. On the drive, I directed my mom up 95 through DC and Baltimore, and then up 83 to 81. She didn’t trust me much, but she trusted me enough, which was good, because I figured it out and got us here safely, totally without getting us lost. When we got here, to the Lehigh Valley, we just played Guitar Hero II with my cousins, a lot, and they kept bringing up D-Slice, a lot, since they somehow know he plays and is beast at it, and they practically worship him. I felt like I was talking about him way too much, but that’s to be expected since I missed him so much, too much. And they asked questions, too, so I don’t think they minded, really. How tall is he? Liz laughed hysterically at my reply. Can he play this song on expert? Would he mess up this part? No, he could play it without looking at the screen. Is he a douche bag (from Sean, who got a hoodie with a zipper that even lines the hood, so he keeps zipping it up over his head)? I felt like I was bragging about him, but what’s not to brag about, and why not? He’s wonderful. I’m so lame. And by now, he’s in London.

I slept over at Liz’s, but at about 9 this morning, my mom came into her room with her green jacket on, to take me back to the hotel.  Zombie-like, I wondered why, and she alerted me that Liz and Billy had been barfing, so I needed to leave.  All I could think was, “Shit, I’m glad I’m not sick.”  When I got to the hotel, Alexa told me I had a steel stomach and that I wouldn’t get sick, no way (was that a compliment?).  I don’t know, though.  I never get sick with everyone else, when it involves barfing.  I get isolated illnesses, like when I was 13 and my whole family was out to dinner, and I puked up grapes in the toilet.  I can take care of myself when I’m sick, but only if I’ve been eating fruits, apparently.  I had Cheerios, a muffin, and apple juice this morning, and yesterday I had heaping portions of corn and mashed potatoes, and a little pie.  I really don’t want to barf, and I really want to go “out” somewhere, anywhere, maybe with kids my age, so I won’t feel so young and so old at the same time.

At 3, though, my father is picking us (as in me, Rachael, and Alexa) up and bringing us over to his parents’ house to make appearances and eat dinner.  The crazy thing about my parents:  Not only did they both grow up here in Bethlehem, they also grew up in the same neighbourhood.  Once, when Liz and I were bored with Independence Day festivities at the Connors place (I brought her along for good measure), we attempted to walk to the McDonald place, but we got a little lost along the way.  It’s like my parents are already split up, and we’re dividing appearances.  It’s weird.  The older I get, the less I want to go to either place.

Nick Covino (Nicholas Copernicus) is going to be in Lewisburg for break.  My mother uses that as an excuse that we have to visit there after or before we go to the Lehigh Valley.  Like, yeah, let’s go there and stay past the expiration date.  The kids, we can lump on the couch to do nothing, yeah, whatever, it’ll be “fun.”

I can drive better than ever before.  And I am dreading Christmas more than ever before.  The Lehigh Valley is my home.  It’s where I was born and raised, and a part of me will always be there, with the Crossroads, and Musikfest and Bethlehem Dairy and A-Treat.  It’s not even the physical being that is the Lehigh Valley; it’s everything about it that I hate and love that makes me love it even more.  Lewisburg is a vacation, or rather, it was, but to me, it’s death, even with Nick and Sean and Eric.  I can’t stand it.  Plus, I’m no longer looking for some insignificant younger man to fill a void for whatever I’m lacking.  They’re all snobby, anyways.  They go for skinny, young blonds who don’t read.  I’m…none of that, so it doesn’t matter.  I’m safe.  Everyone should know that I will be safe there and not at all coveted.  At all.

If anything, though, that makes me feel insecure.  Also because if, perchance, everyone (the adult group) gets drunk, I’ll probably get stabbed, because no man there is on my side.

Ugh, dread.  Dread at staying inside the whole time and avoiding Suzanne and JESUS, aka Jason who looks like the Messiah but is fucking annoying.  Damn.  That’ll be hard, since they’re next-door neighbours.  Eff.

Probably the most entertaining thing about WordPress is the feature that shows the author how readers access their blog. There’s the links one, which shows what links people clicked to get here. I get a lot from FreakyTrigger (some denomination of WordPress for real writers), where I wrote a few comments on a clever and on-target essay about indie kids. You should read the essay, definitely, but if you have a lot of time on your hands, go read the comments. I read all of them. Some people are such goddamn dumbasses.

I also get a lot of links from my Myspace and Livejournal, and my blog on Blogspot, which just has a lame greeting and a link to this page.

There’s also the feature that shows who’s linked you, which is really insignificant. I link everyone.

Last but not least, my favourite feature is the Searches one. It gives you the word-for-word searches real people have typed in to get your blog, and more importantly, clicked on your blog for because they thought it would be helpful. The searches I get! Okay. There are the porno ones, which, now I’m going to get tons of clicks from searches for porn about incest or something. I don’t really know how people get to my blog through that, anyway, unless their search engine’s on cocaine. Then there are the lyric ones. I get Del Shannon, Bright Eyes, An Angle, Rilo Kiley…most of all, though, I get searches for The Strokes’ “You Only Live Once.” Great song, but I’m not a lyric database.

There are some people who search their names or something, and my blog pops up on the first or second page of Google. This is aight; I’m not trying to hide anything. If I wrote about hating to look at you in the school hallways a month ago, I probably still feel the same way, and moreover, I probably have a damn good reason. And if I wrote about how amazingly uncharacteristic of me it was to like your song (which was amazing), then I’m probably still jammin’.

My favourite searches, though, are the REALLY weird ones. I’m not talking “Kris Anaya is fat” or “the shins balding” ones…I’m talking about the “Jenny Lewis naked” ones and the “Conor Oberst anorexic”/”what does conor oberst eat?” ones. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU PEOPLE THINKING?!!?!? As for the Jenny Lewis one–tsk tsk! You shouldn’t be looking for photos that exploit her. She’s amazing. Have you no shame?! If you’re looking for naughty pictures, then search Paris Hilton or Shannon Elizabeth. God. Don’t do that to me.

I have nothing to say about the Conor Oberst anorexic one, because he’s probably just naturally really thin. Really small. You’ve probably seen photos of him standing with other people and girls, like the fourth of July one pf him dancing with children in Omaha (I’m guessing), and he’s just not that tall. So do you really expect him to be built or like, fat? I don’t.

And that leaves us with “what does conor oberst eat?” That’s a personal favourite. What kind of a crazed fan really gives a fucking shit what her (no guy, straight or gay, would waste his time) favourite “emo” rockstar eats? Is she entering a trivia contest? Is he her role model? Furthermore, does she really expect to find some kind of a list of all the foods Conor Oberst eats, just sitting out there on the internet? Uh, I don’t know about you, but I don’t keep track of the foods I eat on a list, much less put it online. I eat a little bit of everything (and it changes daily, just depending on circumstances), as does almost everyone. Wait a MINUTE.

I found this high-quality amazing picture, real live action of Conor Oberst in the middle of Omaha writing down food that he’s eaten! It looks like there’s a half-eaten muffin on the ground! Aah! So my bad, I guess he does write down everything he eats! Ugh.

You guys are lame and way impressionable. Hah.

I smell like cologne, and it’s a really happy smell. This winter break has been probably the best ever. There’s no snow, and I can’t say I’ve left the comfort of a home very much, or for very long (drives in between my home and Derek’s home), but it’s been relaxing and comforting and reassuring and pleasant, which I guess is what winter is supposed to feel like–being together–instead of feeling drowsy and depressed all the time. These days, I can sleep peacefully and not feel lonely when I’m trying to sleep (gaddamn, I’m sixteen…that sounded wrong), because I’ve got someone to think about. Instead of dreading the next awful day cooped up, I’m thriving on tomorrow, when I’ll get to go out and live happily again. I never felt that way in any other relationship, however goddamn exciting (sarcasm, anyone?) those two were, with sex by the minute and dates galore (way sarcastic).

I figured out a while ago that reading my own horoscopes can’t tell me jack squat about myself. Let’s get technical, okay? I’m one of those Virgos born in August. Generally speaking, Virgo means you’re way detail-oriented, you’re a perfectionist, and you aim to uh, serve or please. People can walk on you, but you’ll end up successful anyway because you’re way conscientious. You rely on rationality and facts, whereas most normal people rely on pure emotion. Emotion doesn’t come easily to you. The August touch basically means you’ve got a little Leo in you…maybe you’re a little egotistical, or maybe you’re on the outgoing side (of the timid spectrum, harhar). Ugh. I’ve read this a million times over. Fuck that shit. I know. I know. Do I ever need to hear it again? NO, FUCKING NO.

It’s interesting, though, reading the horoscopes of other signs. Not daily, shit, but the profiles. Or, well, sometimes, you HAVE to do this, but for a comparison, you have to get a fucking compatibility report. To me, compatibility reports have never meant shit. It’s not going to make me not like a guy if our fucking astrological signs aren’t compatible. It takes a lot more than that. Sometimes, by reading these things, you can pick out your own insecurities.

Let’s not segway. Let’s just jump the fuck into it; the water’s still cold, but that’s okay. I am fucking terrified of other people noticing my own flaws as readily as I see them. I’m paranoid. I figure that behind the scenes, life’s some kind of competition, and eveyone’s just comparing you to everyone else while you’re not around. That’s probably why I’m so damn passive. I figure that everyone else is as detail-oriented. I look at people’s hands, and I can tell if they’re as nervous or insecure as me just by looking at and around their fingernails. I love to look at people’s hands, and I love people with cultured hands, minus my own (I hate my hands with a burning passion; they’re very ugly). I like to observe feet a lot, too. I take in individual strands of hair and how they fall on people’s heads. It amazes me how some people’s hair has a deceiving texture. I like eyelashes a lot, probably because I’m so full of my own. I abuse them a lot. They’re black and long and thick, naturally. God, I’m a bragging bitch. I like to look at eyebrows, too. Unibrows bug me more than anything in the world. If/when I have female children, I will begin plucking their eyebrows from age four if they have unibrows. I’ve already promised myself that. I envy people with naturally thick but tolerable eyebrows, because mine are thick and unruly. I like to look at people’s eyes and hair in the sunlight, because manmade light is such a lie, plus, it’s way pretty in the real light.

Reading other horoscopes, though, has revealed that normal people don’t even notice this kind of shit, unless maybe they’re as sensitive and sappy as me. Most people just take in what they see on a surface level (I don’t even know how the fuck they do it!), and they evaluate from there. They don’t feel the need to dig deeper and see some kind of a poetry in details. They accept immediately. There’s a black and a white and a rough and a smooth, and there is no in-between. I don’t get it, but I’m slightly relieved that it might prevent my insecurities from being displayed any time soon on a giant silver platter. Like my eyebrows being slightly uneven, or my stomach, or my ugly fingernails, or my tendencies to not look like [insert hot female model/actress/singer here].

Gaddamn, I’m fucking tired. I just needed to get that out there. It’s something I’ve kept to myself for a while.

I hate that I’m trying to avoid writing because I know I’m going to make someone blush.  Namely, one person who I don’t care if he reads this blog; as long as he’s alive, I’m good.  What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been happy lately, and I feel like writing about it will take any sort of secerecy or magic out of it.  I’d also hate to embarrass someone with words.  My words.

I hate how some girls see men as objects.  They’re not even people; they’re like gifts, or toys, and relationships are games, and the games each have different levels, and the boys, you can break and bend in all sorts of directions, and it doesn’t matter as long as they’re hot and not cheating.  That sort of mindset gives a bad name to all girls, especially in my opinion, where this “toy” they’re talking about turns out to be someone I care for, and I don’t feel like joking about how little I care for him, when, in fact, he means far more to me than these stupid gossipmongers…even more than Jenny Lewis or Conor Oberst (GASPITY GASP GASP GASP).

Damn, I’m tired.

Listen to the Intimates.  Watch Little Miss Sunshine and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.  J’ai trop sommeil.