backpack dreams

Something I lack.

It's frustrating, because I swear I have all these feelings and thoughts and colors and emotions and opinions and jokes and stories and everythings I want to explain to you, but I can't.
I can almost see all the rainbows and unicorns exploding and rushing out of my throat, my soul, but when I speak sometimes all I hear is mumble jumble.

And the worst part is I don't always catch myself.
I can go for sentences before realizing I'm not getting any proper reaction from you, instead, you furrow your eyebrows and put down what you're doing.
You scoot nearer to me, as if you are hard of hearing, you tilt your head and get even nearer to my face.
"What was that?"
And I don't feel like reiterating, I don't think I can.
So I just say, "Nevermind." Defeated.
I mouth the words to myself again. I feel my tongue slapping again my teeth. I try to measure and control my mouth, so you can understand me.
It feels like I'm trying to lick my elbow, or maybe scratch that one area of your back, the one you can never quite reach. So I give up.
But if I really suck it up, or if I'm feeling particularly brave, I try again.
That always makes it worse. Now I'm consciously listening to each syllable, counting how many times I lisp, how many times my words stumble.

My mouth seems too slow for the rest of me.

One day I think I'll invent a special tube, for our brains.
You'll take one end of the tube and stick it in your brain, and I'll take the other end and stick it in mine.
We won't have to speak, we can just watch our thoughts flow and mingle between us. We can share in our most treasured memories and comfort each other in our most secret thoughts, too.

So when you are around me, just know this: I want to stick a tube in my brain so you can see what's inside, I want you to know me better than I know me.

But until the day I create that awesome tube, try to put up with my fast and muddy mumblings.



P.S. My dad called me today and I think I miss him a lot.

P.S.S. I think my tube invention still has a few hypothetical kinks to work out.

Labels: angsty, crud, emo, fart, hormones, teenager

Sometimes when I feel stressed out I pour out a glass of anything, usually water, or maybe OJ if I have some, and chug it down as if it were alcohol. I even make that one scrunched up face people make when they have strong liquor.
It makes me feel better, it shouldn't, but it does, and I guess it's sort of in blood.

I hate the sound of breaking glass.

I told my mother that I was feeling a little nauseous so my mom told me to take the trash out and get outside.

The air was surprisingly cool, considering the dry thickness of the air yesterday. I don't know what the weather was like today, I wouldn't, since I stayed inside.

But anyway, I walked outside.

I heard a baby crying.

I walked down the steps, I wished I counted them by the time I got to the bottom.

I saw a couple walking laps around the parking lot, linking arms.

I tossed the bag into the dumpster.

I look at the moon.

I walked up the steps, 29 of them.

I wondered how many steps I've taken in my whole entire lifetime.

I opened the door, and I realize my apartment smells like fish.

I sit down and write this post.

I don't feel much better.

I wish I could skip out on school tomorrow, but I really can't afford to tomorrow.

profanity here

There's something frustrating about looking for something you've lost, be it a school document, keys, a phone, your religion, your cat, whatever.
There are no guarantees of when you'll find what you've lost, or if it will ever be found.
That's why with each second as I scan every single room in this 2 bedroom apartment, ruffle through every stack of papers I can get my hands on, and try to grasp that faint moment where I last saw that stupid stupid sign up sheet, comes a growing sense of futility. Yes, the paper I've lost is somewhat important, I will get in a little bit of trouble, go through a little bit of embarrassment. But really what I've been searching for all day will be forgotten in the next month, the next week even.
But knowing that the one paper I've been looking for is somewhere out there, and that I will probably never find it, no matter how hard or long I search for it, hits much harder than the loss of any stupid Big Buddy sign up sheet.
This sense of uselessness, I guess, could be considered a theme in my life.
I feel overwhelmed, and I'm not sure by what.
So me frantically searching for this one 8 1/2" by 11" sheet of shit should serve as some kind catharsis for me. But it doesn't.
Instead it feels like some kind of penance. I look and look even though deep down I know there's no point. I should give up. But I can't. For some unexplainable reason, despite my inner apathy and pseudo-nihilism, I keep looking.
I am Sisyphus, but more like a Sissypuss.
I know that's a horrible pun, but sometimes I don't even feel worthy of Tartarus.
I am a Sissypuss.

Why'd I have to lose that paper?

If everyone was perfect.
Everyone could be the smartest, the funniest, the most athletic, the most musical, the most attractive, the most poetic, the strongest, the wittiest, the kindest, the coolest, the creme de la creme de la creme de la creme, the most MOST of the MOST.

It would be a global tie for 1st.

And then, because of that, none of it would matter.

Sorry, I don't know where I'm going with this.

Anyway, on with the vague unneeded synopsis of my day.
Thinking today opened up my eyes (no Asian jokes, prease).
I feel a little embarrassed thinking about the past now, actually.

I'm just beginning to take my baby steps.

anus

I love Charlyne Yi so much. And I was utterly poopified when she responded to my message. But it felt a little too detached and nonchalant for me.
I wish I could meet here face to face and ask her questions and etc. but nay, chances are I won't.

But she took the time to respond to me.
Sweet.

And yes, I do not know why I am posting this a month later, either.

I feel the need to express myself but I'm not sure what I'd express or how I would go about doing it.

I think this is what teenage angst is.

I was also attempting to debate with Habashi about Prop 8 and he kind of owned me. Of course it wasn't anything personal when we were talking, just slightly heated conversation.
But if anything, Michael made me think even more about Prop 8 (and other things) and I still firmly think that Prop 8 is completely wrong.
Wrong wrong wrong!
And I'm right right right!

Maybe I should sleep.

Random thought: I wonder what it feels like to be COMPLETELY drunk. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Random post-script: That would be irresponsible of me to get drunk.

Newer more wholesome, but still random, thought: I think if I was an astronaut I would steal away some people and blast off and never ever come back. We would have some space shuttle farm or something and live the rest of our lives floating in space. But who to bring with me? Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.