I'm getting that hollow feeling in my stomach again. I want to shut down my brain a little sometimes. I'm a thinker, and a pessimist. So I pull myself down to Gehenna everytime I stare off equipped with a working mind or something. The Nirvana-ish kind of happiness is just a wisteria-skinned, button-nosed leprechaun to me. It doesn't exist. Excuse me for that metaphor but since I'm still very much addicted with the CW people, I'm thinking of declaring a Metaphor Moon's Day kind of thing in this blog, just to amuse myself a little.
I'm just back to being possessed by Obscurity, a mental trickster. I love being obscure. I feel less responsible for the obscure words I lay down because I only marginally mean them. That should make it hard for anybody to judge me, unless you're some narrow-minded MRP, which you probably aren't.
So, as I was stating, I have that hollow thing in my stomach and I just know it's not a bowel problem. I'm not kidding. I've been rereading my journal and an unsurprising majority of the pages were dedicated to the one thing I couldn't type in here bluntly. I don't want this journal to be unearthed by some science person decades after my death and conclude that there was a sullen, dweeby diarist who spent a year stressing on the fact that she felt generally inept.
I hope I lost you somewhere in the middle of those words because I don't want you to know. I don't want anybody to know what I'm really thinking. I don't want condescending or sympathizing people. On some occasions I really do, but that occasion isn't now. I don't even know why I'm acting so stubborn right now. What I want to do is make a post on ICM, which I've just accomplished. Hoo-flipping-ray.
I'm just back to being possessed by Obscurity, a mental trickster. I love being obscure. I feel less responsible for the obscure words I lay down because I only marginally mean them. That should make it hard for anybody to judge me, unless you're some narrow-minded MRP, which you probably aren't.
So, as I was stating, I have that hollow thing in my stomach and I just know it's not a bowel problem. I'm not kidding. I've been rereading my journal and an unsurprising majority of the pages were dedicated to the one thing I couldn't type in here bluntly. I don't want this journal to be unearthed by some science person decades after my death and conclude that there was a sullen, dweeby diarist who spent a year stressing on the fact that she felt generally inept.
I hope I lost you somewhere in the middle of those words because I don't want you to know. I don't want anybody to know what I'm really thinking. I don't want condescending or sympathizing people. On some occasions I really do, but that occasion isn't now. I don't even know why I'm acting so stubborn right now. What I want to do is make a post on ICM, which I've just accomplished. Hoo-flipping-ray.
