"Mr. Writer, why don't you tell it like it is?"
i'm lying on the floor, rocking back and forth.
my mind had left my body and is taking a tour of the blue
ceiling, peering down on me and laughing and for some
reason i'm laughing too.
i guess it's funny how my life is filled with angst and
drama and really, i don't have much to worry about.
i haven't smoked in over a week and my khakis are too big
and it's been a few days since i shaved my legs.
how can i tell if i should be worrying about myself?
i can keep going for 71 hours and i can go through the
remains of a bottle of advil and feel okay, but one
mistimed jon thought and i'm crushed.
why can't i be like everybody else and not give a damn
about what someone thinks of me or how i look or what my
grades are like?
why can i only let go of my inhibitions and worries when
why do i cry with jealousy over sheldrick's voice when i
know perfectly well that i'm not a tenor?
why is it that i can see the good in everyone but myself?
div says that people are so strange and so complicated that
they're actually beautiful, but i just feel like a big mess
of strange complexity.
i need to be my own mess.
i need to stop trying to be everyone but myself.
i need to stop needing.
[Juliana Theory: You're the beauty that is deeper than eyes can
merely see/The closest thing to perfect but the
farthest thing from me/And I'd love to be the shoulder that
you cry on/And I'd love to be the friend you call when
things are great (The Closest Thing)]