I hate blogging. I seriously do. When I started keeping a journal, I did so solely because one day I'll probably have dementia and fail to remember any important aspects of my life. And rather than run the risk of someone I went to high school with finding my words and analyzing them (I'm talking about you Diana Blanchard) I started to keep my thoughts via Microsoft Word. However, this computer is old. It's got some kind of...food stuck between the keys and it did belong to my father at one time. My point being, when it's thrown out into cyber space, it's there. The words are there and no computer crash or hardware malfunction is going to erase them. And that's why I'm here. Maybe I just need to know that someone is reading something that I've written and we're connecting, even though we don't really know each other at all. Does that really happen anymore? No it doesn't.
What am I doing with my life? Do I even know anymore? I thought I had a direction and then, what the hell happened? I have nothing but time and I can't write even though my mind is constantly spinning with ideas. What am I supposed to be doing? I'm done with college. Do I go and get my MA? What about my doctorate? Do I move back to New York? I hated it there. Am I happy with the way I look? Have you ever taken a picture of yourself, and then really looked at it? It's almost like you realize that the person on film doesn't look anything like you.
Do I legitimately always look like I have sex hair? What's wrong with my smile? Why do my cheekbones look like that? I fucking hate my dimples. I need to get my eyebrows waxed. I look so tired. What a fake smile. I can't believe people think my eyelashes are real. My shoulders are bony. I'm pale. Is that how I look to people? Is that how I look to myself? I don't look like I have a BA degree. I look like I dropped out of high school to try to model in the "city". I don't look like I have a brain cell in my head. No, seriously. Why does my hair always look like that?
When and if you ever see me in person, don't think those things about me. I promise that I'm smart and literate. I understand that my sex hair will give you false conceptions about me. I know that I look like I'm going to steal your boyfriend and eat him, or whatever it is that boyfriend snatchers do...I wouldn't know. Just remember, I'd rather be in bed reading Poe. Start a conversation with me. I don't care who you are.
