I know the city only breaks you down and it gets ya lonely
I'm home and it's fine (I can't remember if I've posted since I've been home yet) but my mind is working overtime and it's all in a muddle, which is a phrase that doesn't really make any sense. I'm happy, mostly, and I feel mostly accomplished and mostly intelligent and mostly like I'm not a total waste of space, but I don't want to spend my life alone, and I think I've read so many stories about love that not finding it has become one of my biggest fears, and I'm not sure I can sleep alone for my entire life. I want to believe in fate and destiny and soul mates and the way that your hand maybe fits perfectly in someone else's but real life has divorce rates that scare the shit out of me, because somewhere in the depths of my mind that's been warped by fiction I believe that marriage is a lifelong promise, which totally clashes with my thoughts on how charges of adultery are so ridiculously old-fashioned that they shouldn't exist any more because of the public and the private and your own bedroom in your own house.
And now that I'm without my friends and I've been talking to people who used to be my friends about how much they don't particularly love their current friends, I've realize that I got damn lucky with my friends, because they are amazing genuine intelligent kind brilliant people and I miss them.
I haven't been reading enough and I haven't been sleeping enough or writing enough because goddamnit why can I never finish anything? When it comes down to it I am lazy and insecure as fuck and insecure about cussing even though I cuss in my head all the time so why can't I cuss out loud? And by out loud I mean on the internet somewhere that no one ever visits. I'm going to be alone forever because (repeat of anxieties I've probably already outlined here) I am introverted and too quiet and not particularly likable and sort of a shit friend. And I can't spell worth a damn and my bedroom still looks like a child's and it's full of words that I wrote a million years ago, back when I was confident that I would be a famous published author, because I believed not only that I was good enough but that I had the strength to live that life of fame mixed with isolation, and what a strange life that seems to be? So many people reading your inner thoughts which you type on your laptop when inspiration strikes and probably when it doesn't, but you never see those people probably, because you work where you live and how do you cope with the silence?
I think I'm losing my head these days, but isn't this kind of madness supposed to fuel creative endeavors? But I'm lazy and an asshole and I don't want to see any of my high school friends because when I'm in a bad mood I feel like spending time with Republicans is a waste and I'm an asshole. I meant to read those goddamn books that I got from the library, I really did, and then my brain and the internet and 11,666 words of a story that probably isn't very good because I'm 18 fucking years old (19 next week) and how can I write anything worth reading if I haven't lived anything? This is a monster of a post, but it's due time, I suppose, because I haven't done this in ages and when was the last time I really dumped everything out of my head? Speaking of, it just popped into my head that it's going to be pathetic if I start defining my summers by which fan fiction couple I'm reading that year. Jesus, I need to get a life.
