Peachy Insomnia

Please, disregard the previous post.
Forget the previous post.
Ignore the previous post.
Please, shove the previous post into the drawer of your mind that typically houses particularly embarrassing memories.

(You're probably assuming my intentions to be completely different then in reality, however it'd be the best if I don't even attempt to clarify why I'm asking you to disregard it. Also, although I could always just delete it, I have this odd mental obligation not to delete posts on here. Not 100% sure why~)

I've said sometimes, maybe even frequently, that I'm tired.
That's a half-lie.

A Love Letter, of Sorts

There's a person on here, on Blogger, who I admire greatly.

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. 

Sleeping Beauty Clobbering her "Prince"

I give up.

I do. I give up.

I give up on daydreams and Prince Charmings and happily-ever-afters. I've always kind of berated myself for considering those ideals anyway, but never enough to stop my subconscious from dreaming of "The One". I could hate myself for it, but I could never really stop fantasizing- don't all girls? We want something perfect, something solid in our chaotic worlds of hormones and emotions and uncertainty. We want something we can never get, and it only ever ends in decent guys trying their bests, and failing spectacularly.

But there aren't even enough decent guys! Just boatloads of assholes, douchebags, womanizers, etc. etc. They never even try to fit that ideal, and for good reason: Women want unattainable perfection, in the same way, I suppose, that men do. They all want their respective perfect fantasy women- typically reminiscent of Victoria's Secret "Angels". But hey, to each their own and all that.

Some Days

Sometimes the light goes gray.

Somedays, the clouds bunch together like flocks of pussywillow, and the sky hangs heavy with the moisture that refuses to let go.
Somedays I wrap a scarf around my neck and pretend I'm somewhere else, somewhere Northern, somewhere without dry heat, and sunburns in March.

And somedays I sit on this floral beige couch, wrapped in a scarf and wearing boxer shorts, and I just stare out at the sliding glass doors, and admire the way the overcast skies reflect in the golf course's fountain.
Then the air conditioning kicks in, and I dig my toes into the cushion on the other end of the couch, and sigh a little too loudly.

The Secret Warmth of Solitude

The opening topic that I'm touching on extraordinarily briefly today is true love.

(The groan of everyone who read that is entirely well-earned)

After many years of searching, I've determined that my one true love is none other then my Macbook Pro.
Seriously.
I fucking adore this thing.