Things I Did Tonight:
>Worked super overtime.
>Ate fast food.
>Watched “Coyote Ugly.”
>Sang Leanne Rimes songs.
>Felt super lonely and single.
>Restarted my fucking OkCupid thing.
>Felt even more super lonely and single.
Woo life in the big CITY!
Sorry about the pity party. I’m off to read myself to sleep.
Listening to The Monkees. I’ll be a Daydream Believer until the day I die. Don’t you hate those nights when the words don’t come out right? Like 98 pages down and the rest of my life to go. I’m pretty sure I just don’t make sense anymore.
Because there was once a time when all this felt like it mattered—
I am sick of cramming my feelings into 160 keystrokes (as if the glass of my iPhone could feel or convey anything at all). It’s so watered down that everything’s lost meaning. I want parchment and ink. I want a letter I can hold in my hand, fold in my pocket and read without switching on a screen. I want postcards with funny pictures from faraway places. I want to be verbose; I want to dazzle you with prose. I want to tell you about how I make funny faces in the mirror when I brush my teeth, or how I spend most of my nights in bed fencing in sheep. And I want it back from you. Now it’s all 0’s and 1’s and — more than anything — I want something real.
This is what it’s come to. Eating croutons out of the box. Drinking cheap wine out of the bottle. I hope you’re proud. It’s okay for me to say that I miss you because I’m only telling the truth.
It’s been one day. How does this happen?!
The worst thing ever:
Realizing your not going to be a rock star.
So I just got my brand new MacBook Pro and where’s the first place I go?
(Oh hey, PowdereDonutz!)
UGH.
I am marking this weekend off as a total disaster. I need to take a refresher course in keeping my crazy in check. At least I can admit it, right? And admission is the first step. Although in retrospect, it clearly isn’t my fault, I am still done, done, done.
