kristenshotwell

K of...Whatever the Hell
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2001-07-22 08:47:21 (UTC)

Chapter 2: Oreos and milk can't always fix the blues

It's midnight-thirty in the Emerald City and I once more
recover from a long, dragged out, seemingly exasperating
day of absolutely nothing. I sit up on the computer,
hacking away at the keys, pathetically munching away on a
bag of Chewy Chips Ahoy AND a bag of Oreos with a glass of
milk and letting any chance of my thighs being thin again
go to hell in the process. But it's too late and I'm too
frustrated to care.

I've had lots of pretty pessimistic epiphanies lately. My
most recent one has been that there are going to be times
when things that have made you happy before aren't always
going to be able to cheer you up. Nowadays, for example,
I'm usually pretty ecstatic to get a chance to spend time
with a friend-- a friend that's willing enough to open some
of their TIME to me, anyway. But still, even while I'm out
with someone I care about, and who's proving to me that
they care for me in return, the thought still remains in my
mind that when it's all over, I'll be back at where I
started from. That's one of my worst all-time traits... I
do that with everything. I did it while I was in Colorado,
even. I never get over the fact that all good things
eventually come to a close.

So, call me a pessimist. I wouldn't take offense... it's
true.

Lately I've had a number of things riding my ass. My
complete lack of a social life, disappointments from
various types of people, lack of employment and money, lack
of the freedom brought about by a drivers' license and
family conflicts are a few of the many joyrides I've faced
lately. My head has been filled with stupid, stupid
thoughts. Thoughts I can't help from thinking, but whether
I like it or not, they're just... there. And I can't help
but wonder... what if.

I like being happy. I really do. I just never feel like I
get a chance to experience what true happiness really is...
if it's even possible for me to feel it any time soon,
rather than having to wait a few years more for it.
Because, as it stands now, I can't picture having it until
a few years have passed for me to get what I really want.

Every day I have a thousand thoughts about my life that
rush in and out of my head, leaving me dizzy and weighed
down. Some of my thoughts are, naturally, more stupid than
others. Like the fact that I wish I could play the guitar
or the piano, because they're such beautiful instruments
for self-expression. I would love to have the ability to
play my feelings into a song. I wish I were a better
artist, one that could take any image I had in my head and
transfer it to paper. I wish I were better at writing, so
that I could compose poems that expressed my deepest
darkest anythings in moving, beautifully exerted ways. All
of these are ways of expressing myself, which, I guess, is
what I'm all about when I get to having thoughts like that.
But if I want to express myself, why do I stay so quiet
when he asks me to talk to him? And why would I want to
share any of my terrible thoughts with anyone? Who would I
wish any of my dreary thoughts upon when I'm feeling bad?

I'm a confusing, perplexing person. That's all there is to
it. There are a thousand and one sides to me that even my
closest loved ones have yet to see. And I don't know if
that makes me interesting or frightening...I guess it just
depends on who you ask.

I also think it'd be really cool to live on a houseboat for
a while. You know, to still have a house on land, but then
one for out on the water on the nights you felt like
sleeping on the waves. I really wish I had one. I can't
imagine anything more peaceful right now than to be out on
the deck of a houseboat, staring at the illuminated skyline
as I gently bob to and fro on top of the water, the breeze
blowing through my hair and my bare shoulders shivering
from the cold. The smell of the salt water would fill my
lungs in the most welcoming way and maybe, just maybe, I
could be able to find myself at some kind of peace,
standing there in the dark and listening to the waves
splash into each other.

And when I finally got enough of that, I would go back
inside of my little home, rocking ever so slightly like a
baby's crib in a treetop, and prepare myself for an
unsettled night of rest, first stopping in my bathroom to
brush the cookie crumbs out of my teeth.


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