When I return home from a day at work, and my cat bugs me to cuddle him, it makes me feel important. I feel guilty when I can’t give him enough attention.
I like really sugary coffee but I try to drink it black to seem cooler than I really am.
My friends are too cool for me, sometimes. The people I want to be friends with are too cool for me.
It feels good to buy things, in a way I don’t like and wish didn’t happen. When I buy things, it reminds me that I have money and I won’t be destitute. But then I feel guilty for feeling good about buying things. And I think about being destitute–where would I go, what would I do?
I’m pretty sure I don’t want kids. If i could guarantee they would turn out cool and kind and great, then maybe.
For some reason, I keep being surprised when people who don’t ‘look’ mean end up being complete assholes. Or when people who are ugly are happy, when people who are poor are gorgeous. I hate myself for thinking these thoughts.
Sometimes I think about if I would turn to cannibalism if I was desperate enough. I think about nuclear holocaust. I think about plagues and disasters and whether I would try to go on living.
I read old journals and can’t imagine why I felt so strongly about these boys. Boys I don’t even think about anymore were matters of life and death.
I look at pictures of my parents when they were married and try to imagine a time when they were together. I have one of their wedding invitations.
My problems are maudlin and melodramatic; at least that’s how I feel when I’m having a crisis of self in the bath, when I read my favorite book for the 60th time and cry over the same parts I did when I was thirteen.