i'm having a crisis.
i haven't really read a book since the second grade.
i'm a rebellious artist.
where did my intellectual aspirations go?
where did my sport star dreams end up?
why does the similar length of those lines freak me out?
how did i end up this way?
it wasn't my parents, i don't think.
where do i go from here?
"becoming an artist..." sounds like a good title,
maybe i'll use it.
my stomach hurts.
just decided that this is some sort of 'stream of consciousness,'
it's the only way i can explain it.
my house is full of people and i'm sitting on the computer,
but i'm not anti-social.
i've talked to people and if they talked to me now i'd stop and respond.
i have to go to work in an hour.
i've had far too much caffeine today.
this is a pinnacle moment in my prolonged quarter-life crisis;
finding my place in the cosmos.
i BSed my way through school,
a testament to both my "cleverness over intellect" mind and the American educational system.
Marc just called, forgot my place.
i have no clue what a Professional Communication major even does.
what the fuck am i gonna do with my life?
who cares?
god damn you, "Mr. magorium's wonder emporium!"
i am mocked by a picture of a younger me.
well, maybe not mocked,
but definitely observed.
i don't want to go to work.
my eyes hurt.
a teacher from my high school is plastered at my house right now.
well, she might not be plastered, but she's definitely had a few.
she's not driving.
it's not really that weird, she married my cousin,
but it's still kinda weird.
i'm on the computer and the house is full of people,
buzzed people,
talking very loudly.
this has been a record of my thoughts over the noise,
or has it been record of the noise over my thoughts?
what i wouldn't give for some clarity...