Random Channel Surfing

So I haven't written anything in a long while. Well, technically I have written some things; I've written texts, emails, tweets, tags, and the occasional re-written sentence at work, but I haven't written anything of real (artistic) significance since I left Montreal. I'll admit it: I'm sad. I'm disappointed. I'm frustrated. I'm confused. I'm angry. I'm heartbroken. I'm melancholic. In short, I'm at another impasse in my life, one where the song "Should I Stay or Should I Go" is on loop. An impasse where so many conflicting emotions are at war--and frankly, I'm exhausted . I met with Char yesterday and I almost said, "my dreams are dying" when she asked how I felt post-Montreal. And yeah, I have a tendency to over-dramatize everything in my life, but I do feel that my changing -- sorry, evolving aspirations and dreams signals that something's wrong. It's awful and scary and I'm confused. I'm an...

She sees the way he eyes her. How his eyes seem to linger on her lips or her eyes, the fine curve of her neck. And something always twists inside; hurts and stings and punches a hole in her lungs, making it impossible to breathe. Because his eyes never linger on her. They flit around the room until they zero in on their intended target. She hates that she's always there to see.

Acting like a child because you're angry, so you take to hiding in your basement or sneaking out because it's easier than forgiving the person you love so much but can't bring yourself to trust again. That's what being immature means.

I might have to cancel my trip to Montreal next month. And it's balls and I'm a little angry and just totally heartbroken. Thing is, Nix might not have enough money to join me in the M-Dot to see Foster the People and the Tokyo Police Club in June. I'm trying really hard to be a good friend, but I'm so upset that I might have to cancel my trip that I'm just feeling heartsick. Woe is me. WOE. WOE. //enddramaticflailing

Tummy's in knots. Heart's in overdrive. Tears well up. I'm a mess. So scared and anxious and unbelievably frustrated. Will I have immunity? Will I stand up for myself? Fuckity-Fuck-Fuckery.

Sometimes I get this overwhelming feeling that all I'm doing is in vain. Like every single thing I write is crap. Like I'm never going to fulfill my dreams. It doesn't help that I seem to be seeking validation for the things I write. I used to write because I enjoyed it, but now? The joy comes from people praising my words. The use of a period or comma. What the hell happened to me? blah blah blah Sorry for hosting another segment of the Marcela Loves Whining !

I can't help but idealize people in my life, so when they finally do something to disappoint me, I find it unbearable.

An ego boost in a diminutive package.

Seriously, whenever I read things in which Jay or Eon say that things are "better than ever" in the band, it makes me sad. How bad were things when Pat was in the band?

Is it normal to feel sad as often as I do? I'm a fairly happy, cheerful, optimistic person, but there are times... oh, lordy. There are times when all I want to do is cry. And cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry. Cry . And you could argue it's hormonal, but sometimes, if I'm being 100% honest, I know it's 'cause I'm lonely. I feel as though I know every one in my life as well as I know myself--if not better. I know their fears. Their aspirations. Their favourite colours. Their biggest fear. I know how to read them well and can tell when they're upset; know the right things to say to make them smile; know the wrong things to say to hurt them (which if I'm being honest I have never done. I'm grateful to be a naturally kind person--and I honestly don't mean this in a self-absorbed way. I am lucky. Not everyone considers others' feelings...) But no one knows me that well. Not even my own pare...

That absolutely terrible moment when you find out that the boy you cared about so so very much is now dating a girl who's equally obsessed with the band you introduced HIM to. I know I shouldn't care... I don't own Bedouin, but the fact that she likes--nay, LOVES them makes my heart hurt. I curse you, facebook. You let me in on things I shouldn't care about.