once again, everything boils down to this phrase: it is a sad & beautiful world. i am sitting at the bar next to two dudes who are good friends and they are arguing about what’s better, emo or ska. i agree with the one in the scally, the one smoking a cigarillo - ska, all the way. i’m melodramatic and overly emotional, but i fucking hate emo. mostly cos of bad experiences dating emo boys who as it turned out were only sensitive about their own feelings.
recently, i’ve become friends with a boy named m. he’s such a sweet guy, but he has no confidence. he hasn’t yet learned to embrace his freakiness and say fuck all the assholes who don’t accept me for who i am. he listens to punk rock and has a reddish-pink chickenhawk and is a socialist anarchist and always buys people drinks, and he’s so smart, and i love talking to him, but he doesn’t see that. he gets down on himself, thinks that people don’t like him cos he’s fat and punk and not a chodey mcsuckass meathead of a dude. when he sits down next to me, he’s always apologizing - i’m sorry. every two seconds - i’m sorry. i tell him to stop apologizing, but he won’t listen. like me, when i was seventeen. (twelve, fifteen, twenty…even now.) i keep it inside, now, but in my head i’m always apologizing for my very existence.
i’m not a good person. i try and try and try, but my soul wanders toward hell. i can’t be good, even when i don’t want to hurt the people i care about.
it’s no mystery, you should obviously go before i break everything. you’re always saying that you’re dying to know - so why aren’t you listening?
(oh, you are my soulmate, amanda palmer.)
this brings us to beagan and her fear of life. she’s always so envious of my travel adventures and my romances in/with strange cities, and even my fucking haircolor, and she says she’s going to live vicariously through me; yet, she never does anything on her own and claims she’s happy with her meager existence of staying in kenowhere and drinking at the same bar every night and cleaning tables for minimum wage. there comes a time when you have to stop living vicariously, when you have to stop reading about other people’s adventures and instead start writing your own. me, no one could ever accuse me of being afraid of new experiences. in fact, i’m the opposite. i’m afraid of not having new experiences. i’m afraid of staying in one place, of having everything be the same, forever…it gets me into trouble.
it’s not a fear of success, or of closeness, but of going through life feeling numb. that’s why i love the unknown.
-journal entry, 3/28/05