There's something about being stuck in a house all the time that kind of just slowly drives a person crazy. I think it's taken me sixteen years, but I think I'm going there. It's one of those things that slowly creeps up on you and pounces on your back like a mad person.
And a drama kid is a drama kid.
Or at least, this is the reason why I do drama. I do drama because I feel like it gives me worth.
After a long and rather perilous discussion with my English teacher, whom I respect a great deal, I've come to question some things. Why I do drama, for one, why I take it so seriously, for another, why I don't take myself seriously, and what the hell am I going to do about college? On top of that, there have been the recent ponderings as to why I don't feel passioned about anything, why I want to go to college, why I always feel so inferior, who I want to be, who I am, what am I doing at this period of my life, what can I do to make things better, and why do I worry so much.
Needless to say, a lot of small, menial things have been on my mind. I'm convinced though, that with the past and present happenings, they add up to some big picture that I just can't see yet. Be it some statement of my mental condition or my future in a snowglobe, I feel like these little things mean something. I just don't know what.
What's wrong?
I don't know.
And I'm glad that's a valid answer.
But why a book is a book is because it's got worth and it makes people happy, or at least interested. I want to be in drama because I like being busy. It makes me feel like I'm doing something. When I feel like I'm doing something, I feel important. When I feel important, I'm happy. It's kind of pathetic that I've got to feel important to be fucking happy, but it makes sense at the same time. Would I feel happy if I constantly felt worthless? If I criticized myself all the time and could add lazy bum and inconsiderate to my repertoire of things none too pleasant about my person? Of course not.
I already have enough things to account to my self-induced misery, ought I really add any more by being a lump of undigested Big League Chew? I think not. I think it's right that I need to feel important, in some sick, twisted, teenage sort of way.
Let me waste my life away.
Go ahead.
I've only got two more years of this teenage thing left anyway. Just let me waste it and let life hit me in the face like an ocean wave crashing on my skeleton.
Just let it.
(on the other hand, i just noticed the ad for the harujuku doll. o___o)
Or at least, this is the reason why I do drama. I do drama because I feel like it gives me worth.
After a long and rather perilous discussion with my English teacher, whom I respect a great deal, I've come to question some things. Why I do drama, for one, why I take it so seriously, for another, why I don't take myself seriously, and what the hell am I going to do about college? On top of that, there have been the recent ponderings as to why I don't feel passioned about anything, why I want to go to college, why I always feel so inferior, who I want to be, who I am, what am I doing at this period of my life, what can I do to make things better, and why do I worry so much.
Needless to say, a lot of small, menial things have been on my mind. I'm convinced though, that with the past and present happenings, they add up to some big picture that I just can't see yet. Be it some statement of my mental condition or my future in a snowglobe, I feel like these little things mean something. I just don't know what.
What's wrong?
I don't know.
And I'm glad that's a valid answer.
But why a book is a book is because it's got worth and it makes people happy, or at least interested. I want to be in drama because I like being busy. It makes me feel like I'm doing something. When I feel like I'm doing something, I feel important. When I feel important, I'm happy. It's kind of pathetic that I've got to feel important to be fucking happy, but it makes sense at the same time. Would I feel happy if I constantly felt worthless? If I criticized myself all the time and could add lazy bum and inconsiderate to my repertoire of things none too pleasant about my person? Of course not.
I already have enough things to account to my self-induced misery, ought I really add any more by being a lump of undigested Big League Chew? I think not. I think it's right that I need to feel important, in some sick, twisted, teenage sort of way.
Let me waste my life away.
Go ahead.
I've only got two more years of this teenage thing left anyway. Just let me waste it and let life hit me in the face like an ocean wave crashing on my skeleton.
Just let it.
(on the other hand, i just noticed the ad for the harujuku doll. o___o)
Now, while I understand that a two-thousand dollar TV entertainment set is a big deal, I feel like there needs to be some sort of moderation in the practice of keeping it functional. As in, if you're going to let your T.V.-addicted ten-year-old watch the television set, teach her how to use it properly instead of trying to get her to not use it at all before asking your permission. It's a little idiotic, if you ask me. On the same hand, I really wonder why we want to press our luxury indulgences into the time of monetary need. It's interesting, really.
Likewise, I want to know when Santa's little picture set-up got so commercial. If I recall properly, when I was young, Santa was set up on this really intense velvet, plush, red chair with gold lining and a fireplace and heaps of glittering boxes around him. Sure, glittering boxes mean presents, and presents mean material, but just the boxes themselves are a part of a pretty Christmas. Nowadays, though, I swear-- right in Santa's back yard is a huge television and a bulldozer with a snow man inside. What the hell is a television doing in the snow? Fake snow or not, I don't think a television belongs in Santa's back yard.
On the other hand, freerice.com is a godsend. Go decrease worldsuck! Yeah!
Likewise, I want to know when Santa's little picture set-up got so commercial. If I recall properly, when I was young, Santa was set up on this really intense velvet, plush, red chair with gold lining and a fireplace and heaps of glittering boxes around him. Sure, glittering boxes mean presents, and presents mean material, but just the boxes themselves are a part of a pretty Christmas. Nowadays, though, I swear-- right in Santa's back yard is a huge television and a bulldozer with a snow man inside. What the hell is a television doing in the snow? Fake snow or not, I don't think a television belongs in Santa's back yard.
On the other hand, freerice.com is a godsend. Go decrease worldsuck! Yeah!
I quite adore getting new books, especially the sort that are hardcover and matte or paperback and glossy. There aren't too many types of books in between, but there are and those are the kinds that I have to say I don't like. I also don't like it when books start to come apart-- that being when the binding shows between the pages or when the glossy part of the cover starts to peel away from the actual part of the cover. As much as I hate spending money (honestly I'm such a spendthrift), I adore spending money on new books. Even absurd amounts of money. I might feel bad for buying a twenty dollar shirt, but I seem to have no qualms over buying a full-colour edition of House of Leaves for the same amount. Journals are the same way, although they do have to be particularly beautiful in one way or another. I do like cheap, pretty journals much more than I like cheap, pretty books though.
I guess I have to say that the title of this journal lies. On the matter of new books, I really have nothing to say. I suppose it's the matter of money that's really on my mind. I'm saving for New York with every penny I've got a chance to lay aside, keeping in mind that I do have to pay for lunch and random things and whatnot. But all the same, so far I have about $451 dollars in an old priority Mail box that I've kept my money in since I was about eight. It's sort of exhilarating, in a way.
I guess I have to say that the title of this journal lies. On the matter of new books, I really have nothing to say. I suppose it's the matter of money that's really on my mind. I'm saving for New York with every penny I've got a chance to lay aside, keeping in mind that I do have to pay for lunch and random things and whatnot. But all the same, so far I have about $451 dollars in an old priority Mail box that I've kept my money in since I was about eight. It's sort of exhilarating, in a way.
One of my favorite things to do when I submit a new piece of art or a new piece of writing is naming it. Usually it's a pretty hard thing equipped with a grueling process, but sometimes things just sound nice, you know? Sound. Sounds are cool.
You know what I also like? When something sounds so good in your head that it just comes pouring out onto paper. The problem with that is that it often sounds far too colloquial to classify as good writing, unless you're J.D. Salinger, in which case, you're a genius.
Sadly, I am not J.D. Salinger, despite the fact that my English teacher made the comment today that my writing prompt response reminded her terribly of Holden Caulfield. Unfortunately, I was uncertain whether or not to take this as a compliment... Considering that she very much likes Holden, sixteen-year-olds, and genius colloquial writers like Salinger, I'd like to think that she meant her comment in the kindest way possible.
At least, kind for Ms. Higgins.
You know what I also like? When something sounds so good in your head that it just comes pouring out onto paper. The problem with that is that it often sounds far too colloquial to classify as good writing, unless you're J.D. Salinger, in which case, you're a genius.
Sadly, I am not J.D. Salinger, despite the fact that my English teacher made the comment today that my writing prompt response reminded her terribly of Holden Caulfield. Unfortunately, I was uncertain whether or not to take this as a compliment... Considering that she very much likes Holden, sixteen-year-olds, and genius colloquial writers like Salinger, I'd like to think that she meant her comment in the kindest way possible.
At least, kind for Ms. Higgins.
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