I don’t love him in the conventional teenaged way. Or maybe just the conventional way.

Or maybe I do, but most people just don’t talk about this part, so I don’t know it’s conventional.

I don’t want to go and dates and take loads of kissing pictures and be by his side constantly. Those things would be nice, but that’s not what I’m longing for.

I want the quiet bits in between. the lying on his chest in the dark moments. The whispers in bed, my lips close to his ear moments. I want his fingers up my spine and my hands in his hair. I want gentle and rough and that love that doesn’t feel so much like love as it does like my cup runneth over. That soul filling contentment that brings so much peace.

that is what I want, and it’s a damn shame that this dance ended before it could properly begin.

I feel…apathetic.

And that’s so much worse than being happy, or content, or even sad. At least when I feel those things I have something to hold on to, something real to grip and feel and examine.

But this…this is nothing. I feel everything slipping away and I can hardly bring myself to care, save those few moments of clarity when panic takes over and I can barely breathe.

All I want is control. I want routine.

I want to own my own house. Maybe and apartment. Maybe a houseboat. When I was a baby I slept best when floating around in a  little boat in my grandma’s pool.

I want to have a job, and I want to pay bills. I want to make a grocery list every week and then go buy those things when I need them with my own money.

I want a paycheck and a mortgage and a welcome mat.

But I have none of those things, just a bedroom and a $10 a week job teaching my cousin to play the piano.

I should be happy. There is nothing wrong with my life. It’s good, all of it.

But I’m indifferent.

I’m so tired, physically and mentally.

I slept for six hours, falling asleep at 3:30 and waking up at around 9:30, because my mom had to go to the hospital to get her kidney stone removed, and I had to watch the girls.

I had no problem doing that, obviously, but now I’m exhausted, because I had softball practise tonight. some of the girls are younger than my little brother (who’s 14 now and much larger than I am), and they informed me that they found him cute.

nonono. he’s still just a weenie he thinks it’s funny to annoy me and sometimes steal my food. He’s my baby brother and dees bitchiez betta jus bak off.

May I just say that’s a terrible idea to follow the girlfriend of the guy you love on tumblr? Not only does it make me sad when she posts thing about how happy he makes her, but also she’s kind of awesome and I want to be frinds with her.

UGH WAT DO WITH ALL THESE FEELS?

#whitepeopleproblems

I can barely sit up in my chair. I feel kind of numb and something is cooking downstairs but I really don’t need food just a shower and some sleep oh god i’m tired.

11L30 and I’m exhausted.

fancy that.

words are power

and I have none.

Dear Diary,

I’m hoping beyond hope that this will be a place where I can truly let go. My ink and paper diary is so careful. I’m haunted by the idea that someone will read it and be hurt by something, or worse (and more likely), repulsed by the rather mangled thing my soul can sometimes be.

I don’t give a damn what strangers think of me, so long as my loved ones stay in the dark.

It’s strange how my mind fluctuates between being convinced that I’m a horrible, evil human, and thinking that I’m ridiculously self-centered for thinking I’m of any importance at all. It’s like I’m constantly struggling between stereotypically self-centered teenager, and Yoda. I can’t help but think that things would be easier to understand, if I didn’t have this pesky self-hatred always taunting me. No matter what I think, it’s wrong, and I’m wrong for thinking it.

I often switch between thinking I’m crazy and thinking I’m making entirely too much out of typical adolescent thought patterns.

I think my biggest fear is being typical. Sub-par. Eh.

I’d rather be spectacularly horrible than spectacularly average.

I’m tired.