There's almost nothing I couldn't say to you. You may be the only person I can say that about. I'm hesitant to admit that for a pile of melting reasons, but I think it's the truth.
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These have been the best couple months for as long as I can remember, but I feel restless. I feel like I have a lifetime's worth of things to say yet to be said and I feel it throbbing every day. I don't know how to get it all out. Sometimes I don't see the point of getting any of it out. I struggle to see the point of it. But it's been around longer than anything else - anything. So, it has to mean something.
When I'm alone and moving, I know more than anything that it means something - anything. Like a fact without words, I know it.
I want it to come out, and it should, I hope.
I hope I'm not wrong.
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I hate my writing sometimes. I always feel so close to saying what I want but completely and hopelessly removed from it. It's a Borgesian mountain I dream of scaling but feel that I'm too lazy and stupid to ever try. I have to fucking try. There's nothing else to do. I have to try. Somehow. How. Somehow. There is no more time left.
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My cutesy self-pity bullshit is probably a huge turnoff for everyone. I'm trying to be better to myself but it just slips out sometimes. It's instinctive. I can't ramble in class without prefacing it with saying "Hurr durr I'm stupid and 19-years-old". I'm weirdly fucking self-loathing tonight. Why?
I'm so sleepy. I feel like I want something that I don't have. I feel like it's stupid to want it. I barely know what it is. I know what it is. I want it and I feel like I'm late to getting it. It's never too late. I want something that I don't have and feel too late to getting that I feel stupid for wanting at all but some part of me that seems secretly in control of everything refuses to give it up. I have faith in that part of me. Everything will be alright in its hands. I want to do.
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I highly recommend being alone on a Friday night after you check that you're grades are in good standing and then slam three beers in your grade while pogoing and flailing your arms manically like a cross between Ian Curtis, Iggy Pop, Elvis Costello, and H.R. while blasting Teenage Cool Kids - Foreign Lands, pretending you're at a house show that could only happen in heaven with your lover. Also, make mac and cheese afterwards and drunkenly wolf it down quick enough for it to feel bad. I did this after we called. I am very tired. Not editing this. End of transmission.
