things are falling down on me, heavy things I could not see.

I feel so awful; stressed to the brink of insanity.
that should not be a reason to not write.
that should be a reason to write.
just I don't want to complain on here.
if I complain, it's real. I'm different. people will throw me pity parties. I don't do pity parties. I keep up the facade and paint on a smile. cheese.

I won't talk about that.
                                                                               

am I really special? I think I am. I deal with my shit and still keep up appearances. I still am a real person despite dealing with my shit. that can be hard. being a real person. I usually forget I am one. actually, I don't really think I am. I know I am, but I don't think I am. my friends tell me I have specific mannerisms that they have picked up and I am bewildered by that thought. I probably got them from other people.

me? I don't have any unique, definable qualities. I'm just a body. a chameleon who doesn't know who she is. a stupid chameleon. adapting to the current situation in the best way she can. you like sports? me too. you like art? me too. music? same. the thing is, it's never a lie. I really do like everything. it makes things confusing and convenient. I can get along with most people. I only have one real dislike:  militant religion. especially christianity. it skeeves me out. keep your god to yourself, please. you can like him all you want. just leave me out of it. other than the super religious, I like everyone. the sluts. the prudes. the stoners. hippie. preppy. frat boy. anarchist. they all have qualities that I can identify with and love. some of the other stuff that I don't identify with (though there isn't much), I find fascinating. I'm not a real person. they are. if I learn enough about them enough, maybe I'll be a real person, too. that's my goal. to become real. to have someone recognize that I have my own qualities (even though I don't) and to like them. I want to be a worthwhile real person. though, I think everyone is worthwhile. (other than those crazy catholics.) I guess a real person would be enough. I would settle for being real. being real would be very nice.

spinning

I am actually dizzy from thinking too much.  That does not seem normal.  oops.

Slippery Snake

My grip on reality and my sanity is usually tenuous at best.  I am not very strong (I really should work out more), and it feels like it is covered in grease.  Someone needs to distract me for just a second, and I forget I am supposed to be holding on tightly, and it slips away rather quickly.  whoosh.  And it’s gone.  whoops.  It keeps sliding further and further away until I remember that I need to grab it.  Sometimes it’s a far reach and I need help getting it back. 

I am easily distracted which doesn’t help matters.  I get fixated on stupid things that really don’t matter.  The small things that push the right (wrong) buttons do it the best (worst).  Logic says I do not care.  But, if I think about it too hard, this stupid little unimportant thing could be interpreted to mean that I am not worthwhile.  whoosh.  And that I am not pretty enough.  whoosh.  And also probably fat.  whoosh.  And stupid.  whoosh.  And boring.  whoosh.  Then it’s gone.

Oops. 

I didn’t mean for it to happen.  It just does.  If someone could throw it back to me, I might be able to catch it and be okay again.  I have fairly decent catching skills.  And throwing skills. 

But really, could you please toss it back to me?  You distracted me and made it slide away, so it’s really the least you could do.  You could try just telling me that I’m wrong.  It wouldn't be very hard for you, and it would probably do the trick.  It might even make it less slippery and easier to hold on to. 

I would give anything for it to be less slick.  I could get distracted and still hold on.  That would be lovely.  

stupid gavels

The trees look alive.  Maybe they are.  I wonder if they mind being turned into different things.  I wonder if it hurts them.  I don’t think it would.  I bet they get upset when they are made into stupid things.  Like gavels. Or tchotchkes.  Or maybe they like tchotchkes.  I kind of like tchotchkes.  They are kitschy.  I like kitschy things.  I do know if that is because I actually like them or because I really like the word “kitschy.”  Either way, the trees look alive.  I bet most people would think that trees would be wise since they are so old, but they only stay in one spot for their whole lives, so they are probably only wise about a small area.  That’s kind of useless unless you really need to know exactly what happened at the corner of Ramblewood Lane and Sparrow Court throughout the course of the past one hundred and fifty years.  Or unless they ponder philosophy.  Then they would be very wise.  They’ve had a lot of time to think, so they probably would know whether or not God exists and the true meaning of life.  They probably know the secret to world peace, too. The goddamn trees are holding out on us.  If they would let us know, maybe we could stop cutting them down and turning them into gavels.  Maybe they aren’t that wise.  I think that if they were, they would do everything in their power to stop becoming gavels.  (And maybe tchotchkes.)  Even if trees are not wise, I bet they like the wind.  It lets them move without us realizing that they are alive.  Well, we know that they are alive in the sense that they create oxygen and stuff, but I mean really alive.  They can stretch their limbs and shake out their knots when it’s windy and people don’t question it. 

I wonder what their stance woodpeckers is.  Also, squirrels.  

OOPS.

I never posted anything wonderful. Tomorrow. I will tomorrow.

BLARGHHHHH

I feel inspired. I shall write something today or tomorrow that is not me being depressed and ranting. Something that is actually creative, perhaps.

hot and cold

is how I feel. figuratively, speaking, of course. I feel happy, and then I feel so unbelievably sad.
I feel tired all the time, though. that doesn't change. not ever.
perhaps I am sick. I hope I am sick. then, I will eventually get better and this will stop.
it needs to stop.
I feel terrible. sometimes I just can't handle it. I get overwhelmed and need to leave. it's like a switch that goes off and I begin to shatter. then I just need to go break into pieces in private. not in the crying sense breaking into pieces, though; more in the literal sense of turing into a pile of rubble. I disintegrate like an old statue or something. it's stupid.
it generally doesn't stop on it's own either. someone needs to stick me back together.

scotch tape and glue sticks.
that's what I am these days.

I do like arts and crafts.


lovely.