i'm tired of being that guy. which? i'll tell you. the guy who, no matter what, can always find something depressing, or at least greying to say. [i don't know if that is an actual term, but what i mean by it is that no matter the comment, one will always be given in reply that takes the edge off the original phrase. dulls it down, you know, adds greys.] i'm not even a proper 'dark type' either. i don't have any habits of harming myself physically, i seem mentally stable, i don't wear all black, etc. and sure it is the easiest thing to do to find something less than happy to say, everywhere is full of them, [which only proves my boring and averagely intelligent nature] [again with the self deprecation], it would be better to find good things to say, except, that's not how i feel. and as we've spoken of many a-time, including recently, i'm not going to slap a smile on my face so people will think i'm a nice [12 year old] person.
somehow i've gotten myself in a funk. and though i'd like to place it's cause on a few events, they are far too small, insignificant, and not even events. i don't know what it was, maybe nothing. and when i'm out with a few people, or distracted by assignments, i can forget, but something always reminds me. or my stupid head always gets me to remember by using little things. and as little of an idea as i have as to how it started, i've less on how i might go about ending it. it's not like i just lost the love of my life or i've only weeks to live or the law is closing in or my bookie is calling in the big guns.. i don't know, and in case i didn't get my point across, i do not know.
and i had a sore throat a day or two ago and i didn't even catch it from kissing my contagious girlfriend, which is depressing because she's not contagious, and also doesn't exist.
and if you think two centimeters of slush and a day of cold rain makes up for a seventy degree december and an eighty degree november, you'd be well to think again. that was some thick water. it was like trying to get clear molasses off my windshield..
if i show up at your door, anyone's, looking like someone who has been running through the bushes and sleeping in the woods, i've killed my international cinema professor and fled the law on foot. a box and blanket under the porch is all i require. thanks in advance.
it's also nearly my birthday. [result of loading sixteen tons..]
also, my dreams couldn't screw with me more if they tried. and i am not even worried about jinxing myself, because it is impossible. [yep, they're that messed up.]
"oh what's the fucking point at all.." -b.+s.
the chalet lines