Everyone gets bored of everything so easily these days.
I feel so out of place, the way I can worship and think about an album or novel for months, whereas most people change their favorite song or book every week. Everyone transitions so easily, and I feel like I’m the only brain that still has a stick shift. I get stuck on things, you know? Once I love something, it’ll define me for the rest of my life. I think that confuses people, as everyone’s constantly on the prowl to find the next big band that no one’s heard of yet and buying new cars and sneakers all the time. I just watch from the sidelines, unwilling and maybe even unable to pretend that I care about anything new.
I have these images, these people in my head and I just can’t seem to get them out, to show the depth and emotions that’s inside them to the people of this world. I try, I always try, but I feel as if I don’t do them justice. There’s so much more to them then I could ever convey through words or art or music. They’re extraordinary. But I guess you’d have to know them to understand.
“I know I’m still young and there’s a lot of time for things to happen, but sometimes I think there is something about me that’s wrong, that I’m not the kind of person anyone can fall in love with, and that I’ll always just be alone.”—Lynne Rae Perkins
It’s such a strange feeling to put tons and tons of time and energy into something and then it’s over…just like that. I feel empty, almost. I hate endings, especially when it comes to something I care about.
I don’t fit in. I know it. It’s because I’m shy, I guess, and because I’m not very nice either. I wish I wasn’t like this. It’s just that when I’m talking to someone, the words never come out right. I can’t be funny or witty when I’m using my mouth, and I always get the feeling that people are humoring me, just waiting for me to be done my bit until they can talk to someone more entertaining. So I don’t talk much. I have trouble with vapid conversation, small talk, saying things that don’t really matter. I keep to myself, besides a few close friends because, really, I don’t know how to do much else. I wish I could chat it up about pop culture or something with acquaintances but I just can’t. I’ll never be one of those people that everyone loves talking to, who can entertain just about anybody through their words and laughter. If it’s textual communication though, I can say so much more, I’m funnier and wittier. I don’t know why this is. I just accept it and sigh to myself, wishing I could find I way to form my thoughts into meaningful conversation and connect with more people.
She laughs. “I know,” she says. “I know that all this shit I’m doing is bad. But as I do more and more bad things, they all matter less. People can do horrible things to me, and I can do horrible things to myself, but none it touches me. It’s like being invincible.” She gets a dreamy look in her eyes. “Like I’m Superman. And my only krypotonite is caring about stuff. So I do whatever I can to avoid it. All of this is just self-preservation.”
"I’m pretty sure Superman never snorted anything," I say.
"He might have," she tells me. "He wasn’t perfect, you know, even though everyone thinks he is. Or thought he was, at least. You know what I mean. Just because someone thinks something about you, doesn’t mean it’s true."
"We don’t always see ourselves clearly either," I say.
"Point taken. You’re right. Nobody understands anything about anything. We really should all shut the fuck up. Nobody knows anything." She grabs her bag and starts walking out the door. "All I know is, this stuff makes me feel better. So I’ll use it, regardless of what twats like you say."