This is some serious stream of conscience. My apologies, but not really. Sorry I'm not sorry, I guess.
I had this good idea for revenge, but it wasn't really very good and I deleted it. It was who I was back then, not back now.
I think it takes two to tango. Sometimes. But someone has to ask for the dance.
I don't know how to feel. I don't know how to make sense of myself. I don't know if I have a favorite color. I don't know what color my own eyes are, and I certainly don't know what color yours are. I don't know what I want. To catch up on sleep? A toaster that pops the bread up when it's finished? I don't know. Oscar says, "I feel everything." The therapist says, "Maybe everyone feels everything," or something to that effect. Oscar says, "But it's worse for me." Therapist: "Maybe everyone thinks it's worse for him." Oscar: "Maybe. But it really is worse for me."
I feel everything. Maybe everyone feels everything. But it's worse for me. Maybe everyone thinks it's worse for him? Maybe. But it really is worse for me.
I get myself into crazy situations that make for good journal entries. The things that should go into normal, religious-affiliated journals never make it in. God never makes it in, even though I know He should. I'm just trying to keep him in my normal life at this point. I'm trying to find God in these fragments. I think He's in that stained glass window, on top of that cathedral, stretched across Michelangelo's ceiling? Maybe that's what God is in the end.
I don't think I'll ever measure up to Virginia Wolfe or Mr. Foer. I don't think I'll ever be the first in line. Maybe if I knew what I wanted I would be able to be there, be on time, be. Be. Be. Be. I sat on a bee at the beach once, but I love the beach anyway. I threw up a peanut butter shake once, but I love peanut butter anyway.
The Ivy League stopped wanting me when I made a bad airplane in the seventh grade. NASA stopped wanting me when I stopped wanting NASA. You stopped wanting me when I got distracted.
I'm scared because nothing is proportional. I'm scared because I don't think this will make sense to you. I'm scared because this might make sense to you.
"You're not my type."
"Sorry I don't weight 86 lbs."
"Sorry I'm not Cache Thompson."
All my love,