January 8th, 17:17 | completely non-linear angsty drivel

I don't want to write. I know (the gist at least of) what I'm going to say, and I don't want it here. It's whiny, mopey, temporary (hopefully) and this is just beginning to feel way too public. I'm not really sure where this resurgence in paranoia stems from (since sticking to my "fuck it; I'll worry about it when it gets me into trouble" attitude towards blogging seems to be working just fine) but I'm really just too fucking lazy (and cold) to write this in the paper diary.

Or so I tell myself. If I told anyone else, they'd probably assure me it's just my inner diva machinating a cry for attention. I say we just cut the pretense:

Hey world! Pay attention to me-eeee!

...no.

So what exactly is the problem? My room's still a mess, I still haven't done my floor postie, and I have exactly zero motivation to do either. This is ridiculous. I suspect I shall get the floor postie done tonight, along with the note to my Chinese teacher (because I'm ashamed I haven't done that yet) and hopefully the room cleaning too. I'd like to think that I won't do the cleaning because I'm hiding in my room, but that's probably what will happen. I really wish my machine had a dvd player. I'd be watching 10 Things right now if it did. (Note to self: hint at parents for birthday.)

Ugh. I don't know what I'm saying anymore. Random thoughts that might, if pieced together, kind of form a picture of how I feel at the moment? Sure.

I feel bad about how little I know about... everything. In particular, on this day, music, current (or otherwise) bands, and the music industry in general, and pro sports. I feel vaguely inferior that I'm such a non-sporty person and that I've never even played a friendly game of pick-up basketball (is that even what it's called??) or whatever. Somewhat related to that is the thought that even I were to try, I couldn't trash-talk because... well... I don't know how. Yeah. I'm angry that even though my marks in comp. sci. are the kick-ass ones (hello, 88 in AI) I feel as though I can't really program anything real. Which is filling me with dread for my compiler course, even though I so want to do it. Increasingly, that feeling that I've essentially always had of faking it at... everything, really, and just that no one had caught on is catching up and making me blue. Does that make any sense?

Bah. It just occured to me that it might be kind of fun to just type up this huge ginormous mass of text (I haven't done that in awhile, eh?) but... I kind of like the breaks. Alright, I've got something. About an hour's break in there while I tried to clean, and got caught up reading my notebook that I carted around in... second year? yeah. I found a passage that still expresses me. Voici. (Warning: trite angsty prose ahead.)

I want someone to find me interesting. Interesting enough that they stay with me. Someone who, at times -- only sometimes -- sees something in me that they love, that awes them, that they don't have words to express. And I want that to be enough.

I want all that, all in one person.

Two more years of university and a 16-month internship later (not to mention a whole new relationship) I still want the same thing. And I still run when I'm upset, run till I'm breathless and can't think. It's a distressing thought to think I really haven't changed since second year. I'm sure I can think of things that are different but for the most part? I think I'm pretty much the same. That's pretty sad. It just makes me wonder what (if anything) I've learned while I was here.

Don't have the heart to keep writing. Didn't I warn you? Sorry. More coherence later, I suppose.

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