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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.
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