Reach Out And Touch Me

I have to wake up in five hours to go stand in the sun for a day but there’s no way in hell I’m going to be sleeping easy tonight.

Usually, I get around my neighborhood and campus by foot, but I bought a bike about a week ago so I could get to and from home/practice with less difficulty/time — I was pleasantly surprised to find that my newly acquired bike, which I’ve dubbed Lisa Frank, has a basket that can fit a mellophone — so as a result, I haven’t been listening to my iPod that much. To explain: On foot, I can put on my headphones and tune out the world, but I’m a bad biker, so on wheels, I need to focus all my energy and concentration into Not Crashing Into People and Avoiding Potholes and Getting To My Destination As Quickly As Possible So I Spend Less Time On The Bike (Not That I Don’t Like The Bike).

But right now, I’m sitting on my bed in the dark with my headphones on, blasting “Oh Sailor” by Mr Little Jeans in an attempt to tune out a series of unfortunate noises.

I almost feel bad about writing about this, even though I’m doing that thing where I’m writing around something. But I can feel the shaking, and when the music volume dips lower, I’m hearing things I’d rather not hear, and it’s not just the voices in my head (kidding). Speaking of which, volume up.

All of *this* is just a very roundabout way of saying that I feel bad for feeling bad, because there’s really nothing anyone can do about this situation, because it’s just like, oh, this is the way it is, and I’m the kind of person who’s used to being shaken (shook?, whatever) awake at 2 in the morning instead of the kind of person who does the shaking, and it really doesn’t matter either way, because what’s all this compared to the scrape and pull of the earth’s tectonic plates a million miles beneath the surface touched by the sun. I know there’s not actually a million miles from here to the magma innards of our planet. I don’t know why my writing style is seesawing between This Means Something and I’m Keeping A Poorly Written Diary.

Uppercase The First Letter Of Every Word You Type To Assign Additional Meaning. Jesus Fucking Christ.

I feel like crying, but it’s weird because 1) like seriously, what the hell, and 2) this song is so uplifting. My friend’s dad plays it for her sister to cheer her up; I’m playing it now to keep me from staring into a pit that has basically become a second home.

No, I’m being overdramatic. Ugh, whatever. WHATEVER. I have no one to blame for me and mine but myself. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, and that something is my outlook on /gestures wildly/

.

I know that when I’m startled, I look like a deer in the headlights, and that I stammer and fidget when I feel nervous/embarrassed, and that I’m really really weird when I talk about the things I like and when I’m with the people I like, and that my overreaching earnestness can come across as completely socially inept, but when the nebulous “things” were looking bleak a couple of years ago, the only thing I could do to make it better was to strip away all of the shy eyed falseness and to hone my inherent (and admittedly, sometimes terribly misguided) sense of honesty to a fine-edged point, even if it meant being a total nightmare at small talk and showing every fluctuation in my constantly fluttering emotions on my face and keeping everything closer so that the capital-T Truth was safe with me and couldn’t be distorted by anyone else, because at least it meant that I Was Being True To My Heart (thanks, “Mulan”), and that matters, right? That MATTERS, right?!

And it does, and I’m better off for cutting out the bullshit, but there are times when I realize that there’s nothing but Bullshit, and by refusing to indulge, the only person I’m starving out is myself.

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