SHARING is not multiplication. Learn it from me, that fourteen year-old who joked about producing an electronic garbage mix mired by blunt sarcasm called "IKNOWRIGHT" with one of my friends, which actually led the both of us to bring up DJ AM yesterday, when he was still kickin' but I still don't care about him despite whatever happened to him; apathy for futile lives like these pill-taking and crack-whoring celebrities, be the death of me.
I thought I should tell you that I'm very stingy with my happiness. Having other people knowing what is up reduces whatever value that happiness is supposed to have. It's even worse when that privilege of happiness is distributed to a whole lot of other people. Isn't that the point of happiness? It's supposed to bring you up because it's all yours -- not bring everybody up and make you feel even less of a happy person?
All my Friday afternoons are booked for the same piece of poop. I should have corrected it when I sensed it but I didn't. Now I'm starting loads of imaginary conversations with myself, and all the people I want to talk to, but couldn't. Do you know that inside that empty room in the third floor, this AM is diminished into some 2-dimensional AM? Who am I to those people anyway? Am I just a wad of gum to cover up the wheel while they're in bad terms with Andie? What happens after they fix their petty conflict? Will I just be tossed around all the freshmen cliques to even the odds?
And what about Ate Meggy? She was my favorite person a month ago. I was always with my debonair friend then. Now, because my leg's been practically tethered to some person I want to be rid of, we're just faking Helen Keller all over the place. (3OH!3 is misleading you.) She's in the Edboard's court with the Paper-est of all people while I'm out there, stuck sitting with this suicidal person who was my friend. Two years ago, we had infinite phone conversations about God and elves. Now we're not conversing. She's dripping of what she calls depression and I was just there, trying to act normal when all I'd really like to do is leave everybody.
I thought the PAPER CLUB would help me develop, somehow, but they didn't. They are all I could think about and I happen to spite them all. I want to blog like I did in late July. I wasn't so specific about my life then, and it was readable. I miss this blog when I had a smaller life. I wasn't so aware of my 2-dimensional self. Now, with all of these diarrhea-marinaded things parading around me, I couldn't blog anymore. Let me play my life for a while. By the time I'll blog again, lots of inane stuff will be out of my life to make way for that one s-word.
P.S.
Who's the screenwriter anyway?
I thought I should tell you that I'm very stingy with my happiness. Having other people knowing what is up reduces whatever value that happiness is supposed to have. It's even worse when that privilege of happiness is distributed to a whole lot of other people. Isn't that the point of happiness? It's supposed to bring you up because it's all yours -- not bring everybody up and make you feel even less of a happy person?
All my Friday afternoons are booked for the same piece of poop. I should have corrected it when I sensed it but I didn't. Now I'm starting loads of imaginary conversations with myself, and all the people I want to talk to, but couldn't. Do you know that inside that empty room in the third floor, this AM is diminished into some 2-dimensional AM? Who am I to those people anyway? Am I just a wad of gum to cover up the wheel while they're in bad terms with Andie? What happens after they fix their petty conflict? Will I just be tossed around all the freshmen cliques to even the odds?
And what about Ate Meggy? She was my favorite person a month ago. I was always with my debonair friend then. Now, because my leg's been practically tethered to some person I want to be rid of, we're just faking Helen Keller all over the place. (3OH!3 is misleading you.) She's in the Edboard's court with the Paper-est of all people while I'm out there, stuck sitting with this suicidal person who was my friend. Two years ago, we had infinite phone conversations about God and elves. Now we're not conversing. She's dripping of what she calls depression and I was just there, trying to act normal when all I'd really like to do is leave everybody.
I thought the PAPER CLUB would help me develop, somehow, but they didn't. They are all I could think about and I happen to spite them all. I want to blog like I did in late July. I wasn't so specific about my life then, and it was readable. I miss this blog when I had a smaller life. I wasn't so aware of my 2-dimensional self. Now, with all of these diarrhea-marinaded things parading around me, I couldn't blog anymore. Let me play my life for a while. By the time I'll blog again, lots of inane stuff will be out of my life to make way for that one s-word.
P.S.
Who's the screenwriter anyway?
