that

I think I might be in love with a boy who I barely know and will probably never see again.

Last night was one of the strangest nights of my life I think.

It went from eating a wedge of brie in hand on Broadway to a brawl in a pizza shop to a love confession from a boy who deals weed on my hall.

ahhh

I went home for the weekend.  

There was a lot of talk about prep school and lacrosse and my little brother going to oxford for an educational summer program where he can learn a lot of college level material and then go to see shakespeare plays at night, after touring museums and landmarks.

there was also a note in the mail without a return address saying that he was a drug dealer

the only things i have in common with my family are hereditary.

my eyes are an even mixture of my mother's and my father's.  my skull comes to a point like my dad's.  i have my mom's face shape.  but i have no desire for a luxury sedan or a house you can get lost in.  i don't see prestige in a good reputation or a fabulous academic record.  i'm not violent or passive-aggressive, and i don't turn the other cheek when something goes wrong.  my face doesn't contort itself when i'm angry.  i have no self motivation.  for me, bettering myself does not mean getting ahead in the world...rather, it's about being happy and feeling like i have a place to be.

my parents worked so hard to get somewhere comfortable, but everyday i've lived under their roof was another i spent thinking of how much i hated it.  they say they're happy because they have stuff.  a beach house.  a steinway piano.  an audi 8L.  they can send their kids to expensive schools.

but they don't really love eachother and they aren't really happy. 

jetskis, vacations, expensive dinners are not ingredients for happiness...and money is no replacement for love.

oh shit

yesterday

Boy invites himself to my table while I'm smoking a cigarette.

He directs a scathing conversation concerning my lack of motivation at one of the most expensive universities in North America, and then tells me he can buy 75 plants in Berkley with his medical marajuana card.

He's a bro.

His uniform of alternating sk8ter boi hats and oversized low-tops say so.

Despite the free weed, I guess I'm discriminatory so I don't enjoy his company.  

the other day.

Girls calls her ex-boyfriend to let him know in the style of an elliott smith four-minutes, that it is necessary for her mental and emotional health to platonically reconnect.  However, the result is a goal that would be way too easy to ignore to make her feel any better.

He also tells her that he wouldn't want anything to get in the way of his now long-term relationship.  That he never felt this way before in his life.

Six years is nothing in comparison to six months.

It didn't really hit her as anything major but knowing that he is so in love makes her want to throw up all over her dorm room.

And all she can think about in Jenny Lewis's voice in "Does He Love You?"

It completely wants to make her cry.

yesterday

A box of mini-wheats. 2 cans of spaghetti-o's 3 bags of chips thigh of chicken spinach w/ranch

broccoli and green beans some chewy stoneyfield farm yogurt

cocaine.a few king-sized bowls of fruity pebbles a can of tuna vodka tonic, jack n coke

hard boiled eggs1 clove and a pack of 27's sashimi dessert pockycocaine.

i am swollen to the point of no return.

my stomach has bursted so that food feels like it's flowing in my bloodstream along with red and white cells and all neural activities have been shut down

DISCOVERY: a torso bulging with convenience store delicacies  is a brain void of ideas.

i'm at the point where the only inspiration I have is the fact that I have no inspiration at all.

Scatterbrain

Moderation is a concept I understand but have never experienced.

For me, everything is always all or nothing.

Nothing is ever steady, easy, or practical.

I need someone to fuck and lay in bed with all day.

I think that could be the solution to my problem.

Success is a concept that means something different to everyone.

The most common implication, involving money and credibility, means nothing to me at all.

Personally, success would mean that I had someone to fuck and lay in bed with all day.

Because really, that's all I want.

To fuck and to lay in bed all day.

I can get back to being moderate once I've become successful.

I mean, fucking and laying in bed with someone all day isn't really taking a person in moderation anyway.

Does this make me a bad person?

For real.

Personal XXX

I read your journal a few years ago

It had only one written page.

You asked God to keep you from hurting anyone,

To keep your anger in a cage.

There are things I would've done differently as a parent of three,

But since I'm older now I know you never meant to hurt me.

 Guess what I chipped my tooth again today.

InsomniaCanSuckMyDick.

i don't fit in here. 

 i can't handle one night stands.  I usually don't like the men I meet in bars.  i'm emotionally charged.  i'm tired of lying about my age, or having to explain myself when i tell someone that i'm eighteen years old.  i'm completely over the word "hipster."

 i almost feel like an introverted, not-so-eccentric version of a living Steve Erwin.  Instead of observing wildlife...I'm watching my generation do what they can to survive in the scene.  the social survival of the fittest.

the ones who do best are usually attractive, witty, and good conversationalists.  they dress well, have a frequently visited myspace page, and spend a lot of their time with people establishing connections that might not be there.  Somehow, I can't force myself to do that.   

 

it's six-thirty on a saturday morning, and despite an obnoxious migraine from half a day spent drinking, i'm awake BLOGGING because for some reason I feel the need to publish a sample of communal bullshit that doesn't really need to be said?

Whatever, yo.

Peace and love i guess