BasalBlock

I feel again like leaving.
Not to escape life, but to just fuck it all.
I'm fed up with America, with art and the lack of importance of it, with people around here, with money, with the need for money.
I feel I'm in fifth grade again, that time when I thought I'd been elected to run for class president, I was accepted! Then the teacher informs me with a sneer (as I perceived it then) that I certainly was not, just before I was to give my speech. So naturally, I burst into tears, as much as I didn't want to, poor embarrassed acne-riddled unpopular and emotionally rickety girl that I was.
This Matt guy is somewhat of a prick, I think. This exclusive society is built up here, and I have one in, not that I really care about it; it was encouraging. and he seems jealous of it, so he shoves it right back into my face until I don't care and think I never did and all it does is make me a brittle cold rigid icicle of resentment and drive. F man. I'm taking it too personally, sure.
I don't care about the society and connections; I care about love and reality and detachment from all they tell us is important. Including popularity. If people see my shit and feel better about life or themselves, then I guess it has some point. That's what will keep it going in the end, even if the little jump starts are green jealousy or that cold rigid icicle of resentment which eventually fade off into ridiculousness.

::grateful kids who miss me before I'm gone; fall afternoons with hazy chilled sunlight; smiles on tired faces; dark circles under my eyes telling me I'm working hard and doing well; the assurance that not fitting in is well and good; finding others who have trouble with society; friends across the world; beer; feta cheese and olive oil; madmen; warm puppies; sarcasm::