>>The book lists are getting so stressful! Even though I know no one reads these anyways, you know the drill.
>>I was contemplating human nature with Krupal via smartphone and writing in my new, happy-pink, feels-like-snakeskin-or-something, scentless, *sniff* not-leather journal the other day.
>>Here's a little snippet from what I was writing, before I decided to rage quit, in spite of myself, because hell hath no fury like me and my hypocrisy, my hypocrisy and I.
Sometimes, you know, I really hate myself.
>>And every day, I never do. Which, I suppose, means I'm not selfish like all those people contemplating suicide, who are really ridiculous and just internally desperate for some positive attention. But I know I am. And by writing that, I know I'm not. Keyword: "right?"
>>I'm curious. I mean, my thoughts are terribly unclear. I wonder if anyone will be able to understand them like this. Maybe I should take up vlogging instead; my fingers can't go as fast as my mind. Ugh. Human efforts, for lack of a better word, suck.
And since when did this blog get to be so offensive? The only reason why I don't make it private is >>because... TFC... I'm a hypocrite again... See, it's my problem.
>>I don't have a problem. Precocious little--
>>Precocious idiot.
>>You love that word--
>>Shut up, Precocious Inner Voice Telling Me the Truth SHUT UP!!!!
>>Anyways, although I continue to battle myself inside of my corrupted-by-Salinger-and-now-runner-up-Plath(?), finally here is that bit from my journal I was telling you about. Never verbatim, never sensical (word?).
--I originally wrote the following in Spanish, so here's my somewhat botched-up translation of that--
You know, when I think about it, everything I document or even goddam DO, by and by, is really just some kind of corroboration for when I'm inevitably to be famous, or at least publicly recognized. James said he'd read my books.
I'm too annoyed to write the rest. My brain is a crummy one. TFC.
>>I was contemplating human nature with Krupal via smartphone and writing in my new, happy-pink, feels-like-snakeskin-or-something, scentless, *sniff* not-leather journal the other day.
>>Here's a little snippet from what I was writing, before I decided to rage quit, in spite of myself, because hell hath no fury like me and my hypocrisy, my hypocrisy and I.
Sometimes, you know, I really hate myself.
>>And every day, I never do. Which, I suppose, means I'm not selfish like all those people contemplating suicide, who are really ridiculous and just internally desperate for some positive attention. But I know I am. And by writing that, I know I'm not. Keyword: "right?"
>>I'm curious. I mean, my thoughts are terribly unclear. I wonder if anyone will be able to understand them like this. Maybe I should take up vlogging instead; my fingers can't go as fast as my mind. Ugh. Human efforts, for lack of a better word, suck.
And since when did this blog get to be so offensive? The only reason why I don't make it private is >>because... TFC... I'm a hypocrite again... See, it's my problem.
>>I don't have a problem. Precocious little--
>>Precocious idiot.
>>You love that word--
>>Shut up, Precocious Inner Voice Telling Me the Truth SHUT UP!!!!
>>Anyways, although I continue to battle myself inside of my corrupted-by-Salinger-and-now-runner-up-Plath(?), finally here is that bit from my journal I was telling you about. Never verbatim, never sensical (word?).
--I originally wrote the following in Spanish, so here's my somewhat botched-up translation of that--
You know, when I think about it, everything I document or even goddam DO, by and by, is really just some kind of corroboration for when I'm inevitably to be famous, or at least publicly recognized. James said he'd read my books.
I'm too annoyed to write the rest. My brain is a crummy one. TFC.
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