Yea, that is happening right now . . . if you hadn’t already figured it out. Cool. Cool, cool. (Context–one of my favorite movies, btw . . . though, very uncharacteristic of me).
Anyway, sometimes my mind gets a-wandering. This can prove to be dangerous, or fruitful, or sometimes this just proves that my brain is a vegetable that does absolutely nothing once I realize that I’ve been sitting, staring at a wall for the past 20 minutes completely zonked out. Whatever the case, my mind, left to its own devices, is capable of anything . . . or absolutely nothing too, I guess (which, in itself, is an astonishing feat. You try not thinking about a single thing. I’m kind of impressive).
Also, please forgive me for any nonsense or grammar or spelling or just pure stupidity that may leak through the filter of bad decisions and not complete sanity after 12 AM. K, thanks.
I just really felt like writing. And, yes, I have the finest quality journal money can buy (um, that’s a moleskine for you savages that aren’t a pretentious journal whore like me–kidding, I’m not really pretentious. I do hoard journals though . . . can I link you to mine?), but I felt like flipping whatever penny-of-a-thought I had into the deep well of the internet where it will be lost and unseen for the rest of its worthless life, whistling its way down without making a splash.
No, but, um, in all honesty, it just feels nice to say random things to strangers who I’ve never really met, and who will, therefore, never really judge me. I mean, OK, I’m sure the few amount of readers that follow this blog have already judged me, but it’s OK. Honestly, your judgment doesn’t scare me because I don’t really know you. (Though there are the few in my real life that have stumbled here . . . hi, Mom . . . Marlin . . . all my aunts and uncles) . . .
[A/N: Can you tell how popular I am?]
Sometimes I have this fear that I need to be funny. Especially in writing. But, a blog–for me, at least–is really personal. It’s my personal stories, or thoughts, and I’m sharing them with whatever crazy people decide to read them.
I don’t really want to write for people, but I feel this pressure, like, oh my gosh, someone might read this–I better make it entertaining. (Or I better at least make it worth your while). Sometimes I get scared that some rando acquaintance is sneaking through my blog gathering insights and taking all these little turd nuggets to build on whatever perception they’ve already created of me.
And then I tell myself Lis, nobody cares. You are not Oprah, Obama, the pope, a Kardashian or a Real Housewife, Justin Bieber, or Taylor Swift. Nobody cares what you do and nobody gives a sheet of 2-ply toilet paper about what you have to say here.
I want to throw that thinking out my second floor window.
I just want to write for me.
So, if that’s OK by you. I’m going to do that. And I’m going to try not to give a . . . damaged sea lion about what you think.
OK, like I said earlier, my mind wanders. It goes off on its own and leaves my body here–empty. Sometimes I go to this really dark place–(literally because my room is dark right now. Just kidding)–that only causes me to feel more miserable and doubtful about a lot of things.
I am sick. (Not really–I’m perfectly healthy, but I can be kind of twisted).
I get this sick satisfaction of making myself feel sad. I’ll sabotage good things when there’s absolutely nothing wrong. Do people really do this? And why?
Ugh. It’s the worst. Just the worst!
I wrote this to myself once: “Let the past stay in the past where it belongs; today is a new day, so let it be one.”
That pesky past. It has its ways though doesn’t it? I’m a grown woman, but I often feel like a child still. Like I don’t know anything, and I don’t have any of my shed together.
The past has the power to transform you, to build you into someone new and better. It has the power to unhinge you and break all the pieces you thought you strengthened. But past me was right to remind me that the past is in the past and today is new. I have to let today be new. I can’t let today be tainted by whatever happened in the past–whether it be mine or someone else’s.
I don’t know if other people are like this. I’d like to believe that they are. I’d like to believe that we’re all just trying to figure out how this life thing really works. We all want to love, to be loved. We all want to be good, to do good. But it’s like when things are too good, I go looking for the bad because inevitably it has to be there, right?
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
So dumb, Lis. You are so dumb. And I perpetuate my misery through this cycle, which definitely needs to stop. If you’ve figured it out, let me in on the secret. (And please don’t tell me it’s drugs because I don’t know if I’m OK with that solution. Actually, I know that I am absolutely not OK with that solution).
Yikes. It’s 3 AM now. How did that even happen? Oh. I know. It’s because I wrote a whole bunch more but I took it out because everything was gibberish that didn’t relate at all to one another. My brain, I’m telling ya. It’s bizarre–dare I say, it has a mind of its own! Did you like that? Ha . . . ha.