I can go on and on, sweetie, and I can tell you the guy was wrong when he said the why of why you're happy doesn't matter as much (whether it's real or not, considering our context), what mattered was that you were happy. Perhaps it's in my wiring, but it matters to me to know if it's real. Knowing it's real makes it real. Knowing it's something I just imagined feels a little pathetic. But that's just me. I've been in that boat one too many times, none of which ended spectacularly, so I need to check who's just taking advantage of my beguiling, submissive, impressionable personality {insert sarcastic laugh here and mild thigh-slapping}. Just stating the facts here.
A slightly related case in point: in school, it never mattered what my teachers thought of me. What matters first is did I like what I did. I carried that stick all the way here. Problem is, sometimes, most of the time, right now, it's becoming harder to see where and how I can live with myself again. That, ladies and gentlemen, is not exactly sad. I'd like to think there are thousands of lost souls out there who are just like me. Nobody's that special.
(Note on August 12, 2012: This was originally posted on
my Tumblr. I'm doing some online
housekeeping and I figured I'd leave my Tumblr out of the drama and
corral introspective shit here. I left my blog last August of
2009 but I've reemerged somewhere between that and this.)
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