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I want to smile when I think of you.
I want to be able to text you whenever I want.
I want you to text me whenever you want.
I want you to smile when you think of me.
When you think of touching me, of kissing me, of falling asleep with me.
I want to sigh of happiness.
I want to be happy with the state of us.
Most of all, I want "you" to be a real person.
Until then, I am afraid I will never be satisfied. No matter how much weight I lose, no matter how good my body could look in the mirror. Nothing will matter until I feel love again.
I hate that I am so dependent on something so out of my control.
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| I love people-watching in the campus center.
Sitting here munching on my salad and listening to the underappreciated gem that is Alive In Wild Paint, I stare silently from my corner. The skinny girl with the hipster glasses, the boy with the silver chain around his neck, the jock wearing fresh gym clothes, the boy staring at me from 3 tables over - I wonder what they are all thinking. Wonder what class they just came from, what class they're going to, where they go on the weekends.
My dreams as of late have been of other people's lives. Not a single recognizable face, not a single recognizable place - it's all fresh and new and I can do and be whatever I want. But, is it really what I want? I feel I am someone else completely, living someone else's life in some other part of the world.
It's beautiful, and I never want to wake.
And when I do, I continue to live someone's life other than my own.
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I am more in love with people I've met on the internet than I have ever been with people in real life.
I can't even comprehend how pathetic that is.
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| Call me Scrooge.
Holidays just have not been the same since the family split apart, and I still struggle to keep a smile on my face.
Maybe it's because everyone around me is losing weight and I seem to be packing it all on myself. Maybe it's because I associated holidays with family and now there's barely anything left. Maybe it's because he was hospitalized one Thanksgiving and I have never fully recovered from it. Maybe it's because I wrote about killing myself one Christmas and have slipped in and out of depression ever since. Maybe it's because lately I've been falling away from my sisters and mother and have finally reached the point where we just don't fit together anymore.
Now more than ever I wish I could jump 10 years. To my own house, with people I chose to live with, and my own decorations and my own cooking and my own life. I constantly feel I'm just a pawn in everyone else's life rather than living my own. Just a body to fill a seat in a professor's class, just an employee to cover the weekend shifts, just a deadweight taking up smoke-free space in a house full of people who's idea of fun is polar opposite of mine.
I feel like an immature teenager stuck in high school, still not fitting in anywhere.
I hate holidays.
And seeing everyone else's smiling fucking faces telling me to "lighten up" just makes me even more pissed off.
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I am an uninteresting individual.
I don't plan creative things for my friends and I to do. I don't jump into conversations, I don't become best friends with people I just met, I don't contribute much to conversations unless it revolves around me.
I am so uninteresting, in fact, I cannot even choose a major that I'm interested in because I am just not interested in anything.
Except sitting on my ass and listening to music and attending shows and watching movies over and over again.
I force myself to do things - go to class, do my work, go to work, take a shower. I force myself to do things.
But I simply cannot force myself to feel things.
Deciding a major comes from "looking inside yourself" or "finding something interesting" or finding something you "like" to do. How can I force my brain to find management interesting? I can force myself to get this degree, but how can I force myself to apply this degree in the real world?
I'm going nowhere. Fast.
"Plan a graduation plan," my two advisors told me. "When do you want to graduate?" they both asked me.
Never.
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