This blog is cold. It is good. It is everything you need it to be.
I suppose I could have a blog. I suppose I ripped my username off of this smart but human internet fanfic author. Like she, or he, was an it. I completely forgot.
I forget alot of things.
Like what it means to be pathetic. It's easy to forget things when you are living in the black hole phenomenon that contains them. I think me, as a person, achieves both apathy and patheticness. I don't know about you. I want to know.
So who will bother with this language. It's not funny. I'm not being funny, am I? It's not political. It's not thoughful.
I don't know that I really believe in freedom. But of course it's hard to tell yourself what you belive in, because the nature of believing in things is that it lies in the hands of the unconcious. A greater fucking power. I belive in that. I say I do.
I was at a bookstore and these people kept trying to help me. I wanted to hurt them. But I didn't want to deal with being proved wrong if I was a bitch, so I smiled and said no thankyou. It wasn't even so horrible, not to me. Not to the me of sometime or other. How bad is that. I am subservient.
I think I am always jealous of the people working at the stores because I'm like, great, you have a life, and I don't. How selfless is that shit? It's lurking. I think, this purchase has brought us closer in the way that it was so impersonal and now you have done a deed and I know it makes you feel good because you are human. It is doing the dishes. See, I enjoy being the know it all. No one talks back. No one feels our feelings. Get over yourself, pretty, pretty girl. Nice girl.
I fear that the only reason I've connected to Conor Oberst is because he is so attractive to me. He fits the ideal. There is no wrong in his wrongs. I want them. I want to smell his sweat. He can be beautifully egocentric. And then, at the bookstore, I didn't buy anything. I didn't agree with anything. Nothing was good enough. I have to have a right and a wrong. Maybe enlightenment is a beneficial choice. Oh shit. I mean, maybe it's worth it for the rest of the world? There is no way I am backspacing. I came into this labyrinth a crackwhore and that's how I am going to leave it. So just because I gave up on the real world doesn't mean it gave up on me; the existence of the internet is proof of that. It is a way to communicate and buy presents for yourself. I can't do that physically. Well I can. But more specifically when I am in a store I like to block other people out. Every glance is vital. The salsemonkeys are in love with the world. Why should I pity them? I think I am almost run out of ink now. I wish my family life was more chaotic. I mean, I don't wish on the star and poof, I don't want any poofing, I just think it would be okay. But I'm not--well, it's okay. That's not what I mean. I just mean I don't have my drivers license or a drug addiction or vocalized opinions so I'm going to wrap that emptiness up and give to you. Personally. Why would anyone want anything to be less than personal? Sometimes I get tired but I'm not like an insomniac enough to inspire sympathy, but sometimes I can't sleep and everything is really personal for me to say but I don't respond to anyone. Maybe it's always like that. It's like sleepwalking but not as nice. Not nearly. They're in the same family. Does happiness run in the family?
I think that was distaseful sarcasm.
Tallyho!
I can't just end this. That is so cowardly. I end everything else that runs me down. Cars suck. The vaginal envy scares me so much. I couldn't even be friendly with other girls for a while. I'm still no good at it. Hang me head. Plenty of hair. It may fall out.
If it wants. And then, I realized that my mother was in the same room and I started to feel subconcious.