worthless narcoleptic ramblings

Here are some more ‘me problems,’ I thought we could have a complete list:

Finding that all of the fruit in my backpack is inexplicably covered in glitter

Accidentally (but not really accidentally) flirting with people

Being inexplicably covered in glitter

Realizing my fake blood has the wrong consistency and that it won’t show up on a folded-over steel blade

Not knowing whether to be flattered or offended when my brother tells me my hair makes me look like Albert Einstein

Accidentally blogging too much about my personal life and making myself paranoid

The whole self-fulfilled prophecy thing (when you realize you’re Oedipus but in milder terms)

Reading five books at the same motherfucking time

Not being able to fucking take off my handcuffs

Being yelled at by my parents for being too goth

Listening to nothing but what I won’t stop referring to as ‘circus music’

Never being able to choose what to order because I’m an indecisive Libra

Never being able to make the first or even the second move

Needing people to go to incredible lengths to make me feel remotely wanted because I am paranoid about everything

Thinking people are angry at me for no reason because I’m a paranoid bitch

Leaving class for twenty minutes so I can stare at myself in the mirror

Having to stare at myself in the mirror every five minutes just to make sure I still exist

Throwing things around really violently when I’m really angry but only when I’m alone

Constantly texting people ‘zzzzzzzz’ because I ruined my touch screen by dropping my phone too many times

Having a shitty phone called a ZTE because I broke my nice one that actually functioned decently. I talk about my ZTE so much it’s become a meme. To a few people. Mostly Sam.

Losing all of the thousands of notes I had on my old phone because I had to update it and it had to bust out on me

Rewatching all of The Vampire Diaries just so I can finish the last two seasons and still crying at the same exact things I cried at when I was thirteen

Having the urge to steal things nobody will miss like when I stole a blanket from the airplane last summer

No longer having any impulse control (I keep cutting my old clothes into crop tops?? Stop me????)

“What are we?” (You’ll never know)

Not being able to give anyone a straight answer to anything

Compulsively not sleeping night after night

How did I get myself into this mess?


Alright, I think that’s enough of that. I hope you’re not getting real sick of me real fast. I guess I’ll understand.

I got a callback so I’m pretty excited about that and also about having a delay tomorrow.

I miss my play.

I have five books in my backpack right now, they are:

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

1984 by George Orwell

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

Atonement by Ian McEwan

Great Tales of Horror by H.P. Lovecraft

I also have some books on drawing human anatomy and a book of Roy Lichtenstein’s works and another book about post-impressionism and one on portrait-drawing, but who cares about those.

It’s funny to realize that three of those books are borrowed (kind of) and the other two are for school. I’m reading 1984 in AP Literature right now (I am actually sort of on schedule for the first time in my life) and I was supposed to read Atonement over the summer but of course I didn’t (but to be fair, Kav and Clay was like 800 pages (but good)) and I read The Glass Menagerie right before the semester started).

My copy of The Alchemist is really battered, it looks like it’s obviously been soaked in the rain and then left to dry a dozen or so times. It was a gift I received over the summer from my step-grandmother’s daughter. She was just telling me about this book she and her husband drive around with wherever they go and then she went out to her car, came back with it, and gave it to me, and I was so shocked that she would do that, because she was just talking about how important this book is to them. Getting something so obviously used and ruined was so special and I love that I ended up with it.

The H.P. Lovecraft book is something Colin gave to me last week because we were talking about H.P. Lovecraft and about how I was meaning to read him the night before and he just happened to have that in his backpack. The Secret History belongs to Callum and he thought I would like it, because it’s about risking it all for the aesthetic and college students killing each other (aka me next year? Shut up, don’t fulfill your self-fulfilling prophecy, you cretin).

It is now eight minutes to midnight and I will probably not sleep for a while because I am texting people/ procrastinating/ listening to faded circus music. I still haven’t written my ode for this class. Haha don’t tell Mrs. Gounis. Maybe she won’t notice. I think I’ll write it to matches.



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