I think I've mentioned it before, but I'm so hypocritical, I occasionally contemplate introducing myself as "Hello, I'm a hypocrite."
Truly.
That bad.
So it's not entirely surprising that I tend to bemoan my lack of close acquaintances, when I distance myself from a good number of people. It's not as if I hate all people, or just hate social interaction. Nope, nothing like that. It's just. . . Well, I'm not sure what it is, or really how to explain it, I'll be honest here. I'm just fickle and contrary and extremely hormonal. And sometimes I really just wish that life were novel, or that I could fall into printed words.
My life isn't terrible, or bad, or anything, really. I just tire of monotony and repetition. Of fake smiles and masks snapping into pieces, then being carefully glued back together.
Goodness, I need to stop being so overly (and poorly) poetic. I can't imagine anyone wanting to read this.
But my sister is being over controlling and president of the club is a useless idiot and I really rather hate the advisor. There's ants in the house (literally. Huge red ones) and I'm feeling obscenely gluttonous and muddled, really, and how in the name of all things Holy in this abysmal world am I supposed to compile a 6-minute long video/photo compilation to a 4-minute song in 2 days?
I went on a vacation of sorts on Saturday, and came back this evening. And the millisecond I walked through the door, all the problems and complications and trivialities of life came pouring back into my mind, the weight doubled by the sudden unexpected return. Is it like this for everyone? I can't help but wonder.
And it's suddenly blaringly obvious to me that I am mind-bogglingly egotistical, and that I attempt a sort of pseudo-love, when, as I mentioned in a previous post, I'm simply alone and have nothing to do. And that's sad and pathetic, to be honest, so much so that I shove the revelation into a cabinet and slam the door closed, attempt my best to hook a lock 'round the handles. It's a blissful and artificial euphoria, and even though it's a terrible thing, really, to even try to imitate something so complex and wonderful as love, it gives me something to focus on, adds a plot to my daydreams, and for these past years all I've been doing is tasting artificial sweetness, so even if it's wrong, why stop now?
The few friends I have, even here, on the internet, are slipping away and I can't do anything. They're leaving, and even though I'm reluctant to admit it, I'm leaving too, and why?
Why?
Why?
Why?
WHY.
3 incredibly simple letters that can be crammed so full of anguish, so full of despair and confusion and bitter-sweet memories. And it really just makes my head spin and twirl some sort of waltz I don't recognize, and it's inevitable of me to decide that words are better, that diving into plots and characters and my own twisted view of love stories are just so much better then anything else I'm aware of yet. So I'll be here, typing away on my laptop and typewriter, respectively, pining and longing for whatever it is to finally arrive and sweep me off my feet, like that prince with a glass slipper I was always so incredibly fond of as a child.
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