This is dumb,
because and I'm being honest, but who the hell is really reading? I'm sitting in a tiny room and listening to music that I thought was grrrrreat six months ago when I thought I was in love with a feline boy who I thought I knew, which brings me back to the beginning and the realization that, despite having good intention to blabber on and on about it, I did not, in fact, even scratch the surface.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
and to top it off, i'm dirt poor!
Empathy or, the subtle, arrogant, asserting feeling that you know people has been invading my personality and encroaching on your personal space, people of America. In this basement apartment with black furniture and a bookshelf of philosophy, one that my fifteen-year-old self would've gone simply gaga over, before she learned the cliche (I'll write you a letter, no! a note! a note from the underground! ha-ha), I've been thinking of myself and mourning the loss of 'good intentions' as an
explanation excuse. See what I did there? (Good Lord, I sound like Mike Kramer.) It's really strange, seeing how the things that you've felt and seen most truly are the things that fit most perfectly into the stereotypes you always thought you were repelling (or that you thought you were better than or that you blahblahblah). I end up sitting in a strange place between questioning my own thoughts' validity and cozying into a ____-fueled realization that I am genuinely just that kind of person. Is it enough to like what you like, even if what you like falls line by line into an accepted definition, or do you have to be original-- perhaps by forsaking 'doing what you want'-- to be considered Something Unique or Validated or whatever my self-psychology tells me I'm 'looking for'?