It has occurred to me that some of you may be thinking that I am either clinically depressed or terribly dramatic. The answer is neither: I'm just bored.
Hit it Tomas.
I actually love my life here with my friends and work. It's a good day's fun with all of the stuff I do, and I've actually hit on a spree of good things that are happening. I just finished an overtly successful show (one I hope will come back again to be performed by us in later October [don't quote me]) and I'm working on that whole pretending to be British thing.
It's just at night when I'm all lonesome and nobodied I tend to think about all the things that are wrong with my life. Like the fact that tomorrow is Monday. If my life was better, tomorrow would not be Monday, but probably more along the lines of that day between Saturday and Sunday, whichever it is. That nice weekend day where I don't actually care about any of the worries I may or may not have.
But no, my life isn't better, so tomorrow is Monday. Cause and effect my friends.
I love my girlfriend, and missing her is a lot easier to do after a year of already having done so. That's the funny thing about such wounds: the longer you have them, the less you notice. So for now, the gaping hole in my life that was cuddles and tea and odd other things is only at a dull roar somewhere in the back behind the stuff I keep attempting to drown it in. Again, all because my life isn't better.
But let's think about if my life was better, shall we? If it was better, I probably wouldn't be writing this, so that's somewhat of a downer. After all, things going well doesn't really make for a good read, now does it? No, people want strife and all that jazzy angst stuff these days. I suspect that's why my friend was almost dumped because of Edward Cullen.
Huh.
You see, if my life was good, I wouldn't be able to have any context of how good it was. That whole Yin and Yang thing comes into play here, with the fulfillment of my life being distilled from the corked troubles of it. These descriptions are really being reached for tonight. Probably because my life's not better.
But again I digress. The real point I think I may start to be getting at is the fact that I rather like reading the words I type about my "troubles" and actually knowing someone might care. It doesn't actually matter if they like them or not, just as long as they know. I guess I'm kinda rude like that. Sue me.
Speaking of threats, I realized I may need to have a better outlook on life. I tend to be very over dramatic and attempt to describe things a lot. Probably due to that whole attention thing. But I think the main reasoning behind this is that I want to be good, and better than I am. Hence my viewing of my life as not better. It's the perfectionist's curse, with a hint of nuts, as I tend to just say screw it and go on with what I am doing anyways.
Speaking of screws, memo to self: stop acquiring things you do not know where you got them from. I seriously have too much shiz that is not mine, but is nobody else's. I'm like some sort of weird roaming trash vortex. And the weirdest thing is I actually think I may put some of it to use at some point.
But maybe I should try harder. Or maybe I should just pretend tomorrow isn't Monday. It'd only work if everyone was with me, but since I know most of my friends are robots conspiring to plot my downfall back home and the people I know here are too nice and sane enough to not try to deny reality like that, I think I'm stuck having a one man party of nothing. Sure, I think I actually might get support, but nobody would follow through. Hell, I wouldn't either.
Anyways, my point that I'm trying to make (somewhere in here) is that I actually lead a pretty good life with loving and caring people. Things are going well, I'm being productive, and everything that is bad will probably work it's way out into something good someway.
But I'll keep writing these little nuggets of collegiate lonesome because I know firstly that I need to. I gotta put it somewhere, because right now my head kinda hurts from the strain of trying to focus on something that is rather close to being me.
Secondly because I know some other people may be reading this and be like:
"Hey! It's like he's in my brain or something! I need to read more of this!"
And who am I to pass up an opportunity to be both a telepath and the center of attention all in one foul stroke?
And thirdly, by laying out the weird bundles of crazies I've got spewing around my mind I may actually come to the realization that I love my life truly, and then go from there on some sort of psycho-individualistic hero's journey through understanding. Sans Tusken Raiders.
I guess what I'm really trying to say here is I just don't like Mondays.
Sounds like someone has a case of the Mondays...
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