They're intriguing and quirky and talked to me once. And they made a shy, awkward little girl feel like someone out there was listening, which was pretty amazing at the time.
It kinda still is.
But that was years ago, and their memory of this blog, and the odd teen who made it, has probably dissolved.
Probably for the best, actually.
But sometimes I stumble upon their blog in my bookmarks bar, and I just spend my time idly scrolling through the posts. They're the kind of person I want to be when I grow up. They write and they travel and take really great pictures. They have lots of equally intriguing friends, and a significant other, and they're a bit of a hipster I suppose, but in a good way.
Speaking of page views, I'm reaching a sort of pseudo-dilemma? Or whatever you want to call it. A lot of people who I actually know in physical life are being informed about this blog, and that's not exactly a good-nor-bad thing. It just makes me wary of posting specific things, for fear of how they'll react. I keep second guessing my musings, wondering if they sound a tad bit too suicidal, perhaps? I'm not actually suicidal, though- I'm too clingy and cowardly to commit suicide, or even to cut.
But I find myself wondering if it'd be for the better if I were to make this blog private? Slap a password on it, and watch that steadily rising blue bar of pageviews drop off abruptly, cliff-side reminiscent. This blog has always been a pretty sad and depressing place; somewhere for me to let out all those stupid hormonal feelings and rants and emotions. A diary, of sorts. And people, strangers, just sort of happened to stumble upon it and somehow that made me happy. It made me feel like people were listening, that they understood, in a way. That I wasn't just preaching to an empty church.
So I can't help but smile a bit when I check the pageviews and see how far it's risen, as opposed to when I never so much as had a single view. It's selfish and shallow of me- this much is blatantly obvious. But I can't help it.
And that's really all I have to say on the topic, I suppose.
I've recently realized that I am not a smart person, opposed to what my family/friends may insist. I'm really not. It's just that a majority of the world is oblivious.
Let me explain.
I'm not smart in an actually useful way. I'm not going to cure cancer, or build a rocket, or solve global warming. I'm not going to attend a "smart people" college, and I will hopefully never have to touch upon science in my entire lifetime. Hell, I can barely pass math sometimes. I may have a wide vocabulary, and I may read more then basically the entirety of people my age, but my IQ score is average.
The thing is, I'm smart in the way suicidal people are.
I'm rapidly coming to terms with how pathetic the world can be, have no faith in romance or affectionate ties of any kind, preparing myself for a life of words and refusing the futility of reality. I'm an emo-intellect, or whatever clever name you want to come up with. But as I've said before, (maybe in a draft post, in which case, nevermind.) I like this life too much to do something smart and logical, like take a few too many sleeping pills. I like this laptop, and my new copy of "All Things Bright and Beautiful". I like my Claddagh ring and my new purple nail polish and the fact that I'm going to have cookie dough Poptarts for dinner tonight. I like having my mother braiding my sister's hair on the couch to my side, while watching The Daily Show.
I like my mother, and the soft stripes of gray that keep growing in her short, sticky upp-y hair. I like her "graphic designer" glasses, that look a bit like Ray Bans, and have artistic blotches of red and yellow and black on the frames. I like her slightly wonky looking toes, that she takes care to paint muave- I like her purple Teva sandals, that are basically the only shoes she ever wears. I like the tons of thin, beaded bracelets she wears around her right wrist, and that when you take them off, there's still an imprint of the beads on her skin. I like my sister for just sitting and watching crappy Bravo TV while deconstructing t-shirts all day. I like how she only ever wears Nike shorts, and how she put her hair up in pigtails and laughed like an idiot with me today, until both of us were coughing that sort of moist cough you get when you laugh so hard, you feel like you're drowning. I like her big brown eyes, and how she never believes me when I tell her how pretty she is.
I like my favorite Owl City shirt that I'm wearing right now, that's soft and well worn and I got for Christmas from my Grandmother. I like the fact that I can never put anything in the left pocket of my denim shorts, because once I put a wad of my favorite Hubba-Bubba Strawberry Watermelon bubble gum in it, and forgot to take it out before I washed it, so there's this big green, slightly sticky blotch inside.
Pointlessly long stream of thought short; I like this life. A lot.
So I'm going to keep living in it.
(And I also have no clue how in God's name I got to this topic. Welp.)
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