I don't love him, winter just wasn't my season

I don't love him, winter just wasn't my season

I finished The Perks of Being a Wallflower a few days ago, and I thought I was going to love it and connect with it so much and the first forty pages made me feel like crying because Charlie's everything I am and everything I'm afraid of being, but then I finished the book and I was kind of disappointed because I feel like I've moved past the point (like this time last year maybe) where this book could've been my crutch and my support and the only thing I needed. 

There are three red Starbursts lined up on my desk, and my car keys and my ipod and my glasses case, which is this strange maroon shade, and I keep making these lists in my head with titles like "things I think every day" and "things I want you to know" and "things I'm always running out of" and "things I walked into today" but I can only ever think of one bullet point and so instead I'm making lists in my head of titles of lists and mostly I'm thinking that if I'm thinking like this maybe the benadryl I took last night hasn't warn off yet.

I wish I could write things that mean things and aren't just words in rows and lines and I wish I could write like I do in English essays all the time because wouldn't it be better if you could understand what I'm writing saying thinking right now?