Reading. Writing. Bath time. Salads. Oragams. All that good jazz.
Cyndi at 11, which sounds quite nice.
Chris tomorrow. I have no idea what the rest of the week entails.
Gay prom this weekend (WHICH I KNOW, I THOUGHT IT WAS LAST WEEKEND, I AM SORRY.) I believe and if not gay prom, going to the gorge with a bunch of kids I don’t know to spend a weekend in a hot tub and getting drunk.
Possibility of taking a bus for only about $80 to Columbia, South Carolina to stay with boy for a week. Then my family would drive thru and pick me up, and we would drive to Charleston to spend about four days for my mom’s vacation. And then I would get to see Dillon as well, which would be awesome.
I wanted to do something special for it, but can’t come up with anything. So. I guess if you have any requests or ideas, leave them in my ask?
I would like to thank my followers though. Admittedly, I don’t use this thing for social networking or networking at all. I cannot say I’ve made any “friends” thru it. I hardly follow anyone who follows me, and I only post stuff that I like. I write about myself and my life and the people in it, which isn’t exactly “cool” to do here, so for those who enjoy reading it, thank you.
I’ve said it before, and I will again. I use this thing to document my life so I can look back on it. It’s really not for anyone but me, but if you enjoy it, I’m glad.
So I guess for my 10,000 post I can say that I am really happy I have this collection of thoughts and inspiration. It’s pretty rad.
Let's drink a ton of coffee even though it makes me sick and agree to go to the pool hall and then argue about philosophy all night with beer, even though I am on barely any sleep and still feel sick from drinking on Thursday.
GOOD CHOICES, ME. You giant fuck up.
Dinner with my dad at 5 tomorrow. Rage with other Chris. Maybe see Ray, as he offered to come into town.
I keep planning these calm nights and keep fucking them up.
Tyler, Rosey and I’s first thought waking up, haha.
Despite not remembering a lot of the evening, I do remember Tyler, Sam, Cyndi and I all abandoning the party for a bit to lay in the grass and look at the stars and talk under blankets we shared. And we all agree it was the best part of the evening.
I love the four of them. It’s going to be sad when they all move out at the end of this month.
Slept thru plans. Felt like an asshole. Got dinner with my mom. Went to go get coffee with Cyndi with intentions to go home and ended up staying out. Saw Kevyn, Jordan, then hung out with Sam, Cyndi, Tyler, Brittany, and Rosey. Watched Secret Window. It was a good chill night and I got to end it on the phone with boy, which is never a bad thing.
Gay Prom tomorrow still maybe? If not, I’ll find something else fun. Dinner with my dad on Sunday and then hanging out with Chris which will be awesome.
When I was eight years old I decided that I wanted to be a writer. My dad was supposed to be a writer, but he never went anywhere with it. That’s probably why he was so excited that i decided i wanted to be one. He was always handing me classics. In eighth grade I was understanding references to literature that were impressive from a thirteen year old. People were always telling my parents how eloquently I spoke. And I was always scanning the book shelf in my room for something to read. After they were all read I went to the basement where my dad’s books were. I always had a notebook. And I was always writing something.
At the age of fourteen I decided that I didn’t know what I wanted to be. Maybe there’s a connection between giving up writing and my dad leaving the family that year. Maybe there isn’t, I don’t remember a lot of it. I remember the main reason being that no matter what awards I would win, it still sounded like a fourteen year old writing. I hated that. I started writing poetry constantly. All of it exceptionally depressing; I was ashamed to show it to anyone. But I did keep writing in a way to document what was happening.
I’ve always documented what was going on around me. To make sure I didn’t forget. Pictures and writing down direct quotes. Storing notebooks away constantly. Even now I record conversations wherever I go.
I’ve always been told I’m creative and I’ve always been looking for a way to express it. Too often my documentation would go beyond any kind of shallow thought. My text messages explaining not only information but also an immense amount of feeling and reasoning behind it. I’m constantly wanting to just share what I’m feeling at any given moment with someone and it constantly hurts that I have no one to share it with.
So as I read this book about a young writer that was given to me by my failed author father, and I think about texting Hugh, telling him about my exact surroundings just to try to have him experience what I am experiencing, and I think about everything from this past year or even my whole life that I have analyzed in a way that makes a strange amount of sense, I am supposed to be a writer.