We are intrepid. We carry on.

Once again, I find myself. I find myself. I find myself.

I find myself at a loss.

There’s always a weird emptiness that comes with the conscious decision to express yourself. The bracing ruins it. All that expectation for nothing.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I had a teacher who told us on the first day to never plan, because things are never the way they’re supposed to be. Life is one big juxtaposition (God, I hate this word. J and X should not be so close to each other. Their tension is scalding.) between reality and expectations. I suppose we’re all sort of living in our own versions of a (500) Days of Summer scene, with or without the delicious soundtrack.

Did I just use that word to describe something other than food?

I must be reading way too much fan fiction.

In any case, it’s nice to be writing again (some semblance of it) and not feel like shoving toothpicks under my fingernails.

Now I feel like talking about the point of this post, which in retrospect is nothing you haven’t heard before. I’m starting to feel like I’m my own father, telling–nagging–myself to do things over and over again. Wake up early, work hard, make something of yourself. (That last one is usually implied rather than said out loud.) I’m tired of it and I always wonder where my father gets the energy to do this every night, why he even bothers. Sometimes I feel like it’s obligatory. Our version of a good night kiss. Guess that shows how imperceptibly dysfunctional our family is.

Today I wore a skirt to the mall. It is the first time ever that I have done that. (No caveats or disclaimers. It really is the first time ever.) And I found myself looking out at all these people and singling out the people who were wearing skirts. It was the same when I started wearing glasses; I began to count the bespectacled passersby. A part of me wanted to ask them questions of the hi-I’m-new-to-this-am-I-doing-it-right sort.

People look for other people. That’s why we cluster. We don’t want to feel alone.

Anyway, where was I?

The point.

The point is to remind myself that The Art of Getting By was–what the hell, I’ll just say it–an awful movie. I have a rant on this locked and loaded, but I don’t want to go there. The point is it wasn’t as good as the trailer made it out to be. Maybe I just didn’t like it because I’d seen way too many beautiful movies and the curve was ruined. Maybe that sort of movie just isn’t my type. (No, that’s not. I love movies like that. This was just a really badly executed cliche. Full rant to follow. Or not.) Whatever.

The point is: I don’t like just getting by with cliches and normalcy and the lure of attractive grown up child stars. Life is different now. Getting by isn’t enough for me anymore. People say that we should work hard to support ourselves, to build futures and to try to have a life. I thought that was okay. I thought that was what I was supposed to work for, but that’s not it. That is not what I want.

I am made to do something else, something bigger. If I wasn’t, I feel like I wouldn’t be trying this hard. I am clearly not a very determined person. I crumble easily (though a few hours ago, one of my friends told me I was strong. I don’t entirely believe her but I feel like I did get a little stronger when she said that. The magic of affirmation. For that, I love her all the more.). I am often depressed and I hardly ever deem something to be worth the effort.

But I’m still here. And surprisingly, I still want this, whatever this is.

I have never stuck with anything for long. As a fangirl, I have observed that my love comes in very strong bursts in varying lengths. When I am a fan of something, I am a FAN of something. Then it goes away with time, and whether it has a chance of coming back is unpredictable. Also, absence does not actually make my heart grow fonder. It does for three days, then I search for other things. (Unless my love was particularly strong, like my love for Kakashi. My mourning for him lasted half a year.) Honestly, I’m scared that my fickle, temperamental fandom love is an omen of my future relationship habits. I’m scared that I’ll get tired of someone and look for other ways to spend my time.

But this: this need to be SOMEONE, someone who deserves the all caps, a bigger, better version of myself; this is still here. Something in me knows that I should not stop wanting. (Then again, maybe everyone feels this way. Whatever. I have to swallow my hipster pride and accept that as a person, I must conform to some societal standards. This doesn’t change the fact that I feel this wanting. Anyway, I feel like I feel it so much better than everyone else. /feelingera)

Long breaks always depress me. I have so much time alone with my thoughts and I never know what to do with myself. I don’t think I can change that. But I need to grow up. It’s the only way to get what I want.

I don’t know what that entails, as I have never done it before, but I must do it.

I am a child star in the Hollywood of my life and I don’t want to be a Disney Channel child gone bad. I want to be a Harry Potter star. Not Emma Watson, because she’s perfect and it’s scary. More like Rupert Grint, because he’s Rupert.

Oh, it’s 3AM.

Good night.

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About shaniquasparkles
Fangirl writes. Has never written fanfiction. Pretends to write six-word stories.

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