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This is LiveJournal in the early days, isn't it?
I guess that's kind of cool. I remember being 13, squeezing an LJ code out of my unenthusiastic older brother and actually being excited to have one where I'd write rants about my junior high days and shitty poems, all with god-awful punctuation.
Same shit, almost 8 years later, I guess.
When I was younger I wanted to be an author. I didn't know if this was prompted by writing being the old field of "art" that I was actually decent in, or if it was because my teachers told me I should be an author. Either way, I don't want to be a fucking author anymore.
You get older and you lose interest. I still love writing, but reading my own rants is narcissistic to a fault and academic writing bores me to tears. My ideas for fiction are stale. So I've abandoned it. Enter this journal. Let's see where it goes...
***
Paris is gross today. It's May 5th, but it's gray and fucking cold. I didn't think I'd still be wearing my winter coat at this point.
After getting up at 8:30AM and sitting around for 2 hours, deciding if I should be proactive and go to class, I threw myself in the shower. Carrie was a fucking mess in class, still reeling over the dude drama she'd told me about a week ago. I tell her I'll have a smoke with her during the class break and that we can grab lunch since I owed her for last Tuesday's. I need to stop pronouncing "un cappuccino" like you do in Italian...in French. Still engrained in my brain from the amount of coffee I drank during Spring Break, I guess. She gives me the detailed story about some letter she wrote this guy and his response. From what she tells me I declare the guy a histrionic playboy who needs some meds. I head home. Encounter my first "abandon ship. this train's out of service" at Chatelet. She's sent me the e-mails and asks for my response. It's nothing like what she told me. He now just sounds like every other semi-egotistical, but polite 22-year-old male who has no idea what he wants to do with his life. She, on the other hand, ends up sounding like the psychopath. Okay...maybe more so a 24-year-old who's acting like she's 15.
So what the fuck do I say? Part of me wants to be honest, but knowing what a rut she's in and how all of her other friends have supported the idea that everything is his fault, I realize I'll be following along, tossing in a "he sucks" here and there when the inevitable night of sorrow-burying boozing occurs. The cycle of "he wanted sex, I thought I was in love" seems to never end. Why do I end up siding with the dudes most of the time? I mean, do you really assume you're "in love" with someone after sleeping with them once? Ever? Really?
Cigarette count: 15
***
I've been wasting a LOT of time on this site lately. Reminds me of being 4-5 and watching TV with the broyo.
I guess that's kind of cool. I remember being 13, squeezing an LJ code out of my unenthusiastic older brother and actually being excited to have one where I'd write rants about my junior high days and shitty poems, all with god-awful punctuation.
Same shit, almost 8 years later, I guess.
When I was younger I wanted to be an author. I didn't know if this was prompted by writing being the old field of "art" that I was actually decent in, or if it was because my teachers told me I should be an author. Either way, I don't want to be a fucking author anymore.
You get older and you lose interest. I still love writing, but reading my own rants is narcissistic to a fault and academic writing bores me to tears. My ideas for fiction are stale. So I've abandoned it. Enter this journal. Let's see where it goes...
***
Paris is gross today. It's May 5th, but it's gray and fucking cold. I didn't think I'd still be wearing my winter coat at this point.
After getting up at 8:30AM and sitting around for 2 hours, deciding if I should be proactive and go to class, I threw myself in the shower. Carrie was a fucking mess in class, still reeling over the dude drama she'd told me about a week ago. I tell her I'll have a smoke with her during the class break and that we can grab lunch since I owed her for last Tuesday's. I need to stop pronouncing "un cappuccino" like you do in Italian...in French. Still engrained in my brain from the amount of coffee I drank during Spring Break, I guess. She gives me the detailed story about some letter she wrote this guy and his response. From what she tells me I declare the guy a histrionic playboy who needs some meds. I head home. Encounter my first "abandon ship. this train's out of service" at Chatelet. She's sent me the e-mails and asks for my response. It's nothing like what she told me. He now just sounds like every other semi-egotistical, but polite 22-year-old male who has no idea what he wants to do with his life. She, on the other hand, ends up sounding like the psychopath. Okay...maybe more so a 24-year-old who's acting like she's 15.
So what the fuck do I say? Part of me wants to be honest, but knowing what a rut she's in and how all of her other friends have supported the idea that everything is his fault, I realize I'll be following along, tossing in a "he sucks" here and there when the inevitable night of sorrow-burying boozing occurs. The cycle of "he wanted sex, I thought I was in love" seems to never end. Why do I end up siding with the dudes most of the time? I mean, do you really assume you're "in love" with someone after sleeping with them once? Ever? Really?
Cigarette count: 15
***
I've been wasting a LOT of time on this site lately. Reminds me of being 4-5 and watching TV with the broyo.
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