this isn't love, baby. i could offer you the moon, but what you'll get is the view from my roof through a haze of street lights. a couple bottles of cheap wine. friendly conversation. maybe some candlelight. a bed that creaks; no one's around to hear anyway. yet the ending will always be the same. this isn't love, baby, this is loneliness.

sometimes i take a look at things, and it's all fine. i read something, digest a little, think about it, think about me, think a little more, and everything's just aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall okay. nothing's going particularly well for me right now, but i'm an okay person, i feel good about myself and in a little while i'll be SUPERAWESOMEANDCOOL kind of a neat person, yeah? i've got the basics for this set of skills that i like and i want to develop and refine them and be all sorts of cool, but my problem is i've spent most of my life without putting much effort into learning anything. so i'm not sure where to start. but it's awwwwwwright, i'll get there.

but these are rare little moments that exist like a breath of fresh air. having no real definable goal i feel rather aimless, and have a host of memories that feel tormenting at times, and i'm currently terrified of doing something stupid. i have packrat tendencies that make me want to hold on to everything, but at the same time, i feel the urge to delete a lot of things. "erase" them. i haven't decided if i want to start over with a new blog or not, because i hate part of the past this one embodies. and i feel like i've been fairly immature and juvenile in the past.

graaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah....