Read my dead eyes.

Thanks.

...is a man's best friend

I've always wondered what tweeters -- ACTIVE tweeters -- are like in person. How does a full conversation play out with these people? And do they ever make eye contact with the person they're (supposedly) talking to?

The most probable answer is:
All active social media-ists are near non-existent in reality.
You choose your own platform in life, I suppose.

--

My platform has become this very couch I'm sitting on.

                    It's blue.

             It's medium-sized.

2% cotton and whatnot, 98% love.

You could say that this couch represents the way I choose to live life now. It's comfortable and doesn't judge me for who I am, or what I happen to not be able to do.
It also allows me to watch A LOT of TV, in full pyjama gear.
To slouch down and write diary updates about LIFELIFE and everything I want to stop thinking about.
To relax. To eat. To give and receive hugs.

Final Wisdom:

Since stress and sadness and war and hate and jealousy and angst and delayed homework and societal pressure and general OCD is near inevitable; get a nice couch.

Your couch loves you.




Too bad it's not ACTUALLY my couch.




I need to make videos.

The short short story of something not so short

This is the story about a man with expensive glasses and bare feet.
It starts with him waiting on a bridge; not shy yet shy; so sweet yet darkened;
waiting for me, you see.

The middle is all confused and muddled, heart-wrenching and too brittle to touch.

But the point is the end, just as the end is where all the points add up and connect.
Nothing matters but this: he holds me, and I hold onto him.

----

This is another post about the ridiculousness of the human race. I've done many of these, I think. But it's like an endless pit of inspiration. It really is.
Of course, it also ties together with WHY I'VE BEEN COMPLETELY FUCKING AWOL these past couple of....... forever.


I love you. I'm sorry.


Bill Burr, the comedian, said: "You know what's weird; anytime I think about killing myself, it's NEVER about anything big. It's always little things". 

Flashback to this morning when I was lying cheek-down on the floor, day-dreaming about either jumping from a tall building or shooting myself in the face, because of an email I got from the people who, apparently, cannot fix my phone.
I chose the shoot-myself-in-the-face option by the way, because of an inherent fear of falling. It's like a vertigo thing. Except way less swirly, and more panic-y.
But.... I don't own a gun, so...

Here's the thing. There are two types of: "I want to die". 
There's the type where you actually genuinely want to go kill yourself,
and then there's the type where you, exhaustedly, just want to give up on living, because of stupid everyday-things that won't matter in ten years' time.

There's a huge difference.

The first type has happened only once. I'm not kidding when I say that I left my house at around ten in the evening to walk into town (one hour away) and jump off a bridge. I texted my best friend to tell her this, and got the answer: "Ehm. Ok.."

..................

.......... That still stings, by the way. Just.... Just, ouch.

Anyway, this isn't about that. This is about me wasting time with type number 2, because of financial issues. (Woopedidoo)
Basically, everything I own is breaking down, and I can't afford to fix all of it.
That is all.

Seriously. 

I know that I easily fall into small depression-like states, and that this sometimes affects the people around me. I feel bad about that. I do.
I used to be much better at handling my emotions. Now a days, I'm more like a child than I ever was as a child. I still remember walking down the road with my father after a movie, stating that "this type of entertainment is important in order to distract people from their everyday, boring, lives" (Wise-ass).
I was so sure of what life was, as a 10-year-old, and yet didn't know the meaning of "stress", "worry" or "fear". I was such a happy little idiot.
And I still am.
I just forget that sometimes.

I forget. I do what I feel I need to do in order to numb myself down. I get worse. I go to bed, thinking it's all over. I wake up, and I remember again.
This is my cycle of unnecessary human behaviour.

At least I'm smart enough to know it's dumb.

If I ever get my laptop back,
I'll return.

The question is:


How personal is too personal?


This, coming from someone who just wrote a long post about something she later realized could be summarized with the fantastic abbreviation T.M.I.


Blogs.


Damn it.

Fragments

Just realized that my way of taking pictures, sans half-of-my-face, enables me to do things like:

You could say I'm... "without to-do:s" today.

A few days ago I tried out a new video-making technique. I call it the "whattheheck"-technique. Basically, all you do is turn on the camera and start talking. I ended up making a video about my credit cards. 

Didn't even make it to the cutting board.

----

Going to London on Friday.

Well, that escalated quickly

I don't know how many times I've found myself in this place (school)
this late (23.40)
doing everything except what I'm s'posed to be doing (school work)


At least I'm the kind of person with a naive drive to want to do good. I'm the kind of person that continues to believe in the good of mankind. The kind of person that holds up doors, donates to hopeless and uncredited organisations, waits for hours, refuses to unfollow, shares, listens and smiles; because I'd rather be naive than bitter.

I love the song "Earthman" by Poets & Pornstars. 

"And I never met a madman

Who didn't have a cause

And I never met a pervert

Who didn't have a broken heart"

I'm not saying I believe every man is good deep down. Sure, I've learnt that some people are rotten, rotten. But at least I believe that there's a reason for that damage, and that it could've been avoided. I believe that if I'm the person that waits and smiles and listens, that at least one person will have the chance to avoid that damage.

There was a girl in my high school class with a wonderful smile.

It was comforting in the way that being cared for when you're ill is comforting. In a sense, it was warmth in teeth form (but way less creepy-sounding).

Whenever I had to speak in front of my class; I would breathe in, look at her and feel my fear fading away. In some ways, she got me through high school.

To be honest,

we weren't even that close.

I barely ever spoke to her.

But even something small; like a warm smile, can save you.

This is me defending my tendency to trust the world a bit too much, for a bit too long.

Okthanks.