Diary-Ish.

BE WARNED: There is no entertainment value in what you are about to read

You know, I couldn't pinpoint for you exactly where it started. The drama, I mean. Maybe I was born just knowing how to feel things very intensely and briefly. I don't remember being young well enough to offer you any insight on this. I get the feeling this is just me. So, for the rest of my life, I'll work on filtering the drama into something beautiful, or funny, or at least something we can all relate to. For the rest of my life you'll work on not taking my outbursts or just fits of totally-fucking-crazy too seriously. I'll hope you don't define me by that drunken night where I cried with my face pressed into the middle of street, and I won't define you by that time you yelled at your mom. I'm not like that, really. I'll define you by the time you went out of your way to say hi to me in the hallway, or the fact that you just get up and live every day. Good for you. Please grade me on a pass/fail system. Passing is living and failing is dying. Whaddaya say, friend?

It horrifies me to think of what I could look like to my fellow classmates. I think when I first became aware of my laziness regarding my appearance I thought it made me cool and mysterious somehow. Like, somehow, somehow, the fact that I literally always (correct usage of literally, please note, unless sweatpants are clean) wear a jacket and a pair of jeans wherever I go. Any and all occasions are occasions for a pair of jeans. Accompany this with a head full of hair that only knows how to go out and up, and you've got my typical look during the week and weekends. I don't even pretend like my outfit is intentional. You know what I'm wearing far better than I do, and you can't even see what bra I'm wearing. You probably can see my underwear, though, because if you've met me in real life you know they are always hanging out somehow. I don't know why this happens. I was under the impression that my jeans fit when I bought them back in 8th grade. Any newish jeans I have now belong to other lesbians I have been involved with or were gifts from my mother.

So I walk into class in not-my-jeans and a old sweatshirt I still haven't washed with my hair tangled into a semi-bun-thing. My eyes look red almost all the time, since I recently accepted the fact I am allergic to Emily's cats. I thought denying it would make my eyes itch less, but. So much for self-fulfilling prophecies. Today I walked into Spanish with red eyes due to an awesome combo of post-crying eyes and excess cat dander. If my teacher had speculations before about me being a total hippie and massive a loser, her suspicions are now entirely confirmed, I'm convinced. I sit in the back right corner. I'm usually pretty good with basic hygiene, but I sit as far away from the girl next to me as possible, just in case. You know, just in case I'm not already off-putting enough, at this stage in the game.

I cast my eyes down immediately whenever I walk into a room. I waddle rather than walk, really. Whether or not this is a result of being pigeon-toed or having convinced myself I am just a heavy and mostly immobile person is irrelevant-- this is a part of me, my waddle. I feel oddly at home when I do it. I used to pretend it made me look like I had swagger. Now I realize it only makes me look like a hesitant bird of prey, but you can still find me in Seattle, WA, waddling all over this land, if you ever need to see it for yourself.

I write because I have to. Not because I think it's good or that somebody will actually understand or feel good after. It's a glorious, perfect feeling when that does happen, but it's not what I'm going for and it's not what I expect. I just have to write this down because if I don't I have to cry, or run around by myself, or do something else that makes other people who function 'normally' very uncomfortable very fast. I write it all down, then I read it later so I can understand myself better, because everyone keeps telling me I won't be happy until I know myself, and then love myself, and take care of myself, and I still don't have any idea what that means but I'm working on it. Ten minutes at a fucking goddamn time, I am fucking working on this bullshit self-respect thing that apparently is the key to all the other happiness involved in being a human and being alive. I believe it, too, with all my fucking heart, but I'm lost. And not one of you can help me. So I've stopped trying to have conversations about it.

And it's not because the computer listens better than you. It's because the computer doesn't listen that I feel like writing this down is more okay than saying it outloud. The computer has removed you, dearest and dedicated Reader, from destructive, fuzzy me. I know you don't want to see this. Walk by my Spanish class, and you'll get a preview of the disaster. Maybe it isn't okay by your standards for me to wallow like this, or post depressed rants on the Internet I'll have to regret tomorrow when I start to feel better again. I don't have an answer. Maybe it isn't okay, but I slept for three hours last night, so if you're not cool with me please step off to the right and try again later. My emotions fill me entirely and work in shifts, so maybe in a few hours I'll be feeling something that makes sense to you, instead.

Whatever. I made an Adventure Time blog. You can check it out here. This isn't a cry for your attention, I want my reader to know. I promise I'll laugh at how silly all of this is in about ten minutes with the rest of you. I just. Fuck. Sometimes I can't tell if I'm really here with everybody else.

Would it be pointless to ask if I'm alone in this?

DRAAAAAMAAAA BOMBBBBBB

I know, I know, you've got your shit together. I know.