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Average time to 750 words: 23 minutes
Average word speed: 31/min
18 days completed of the 23 days started
15,561 total words

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I care about how he feels. I’m concerned for his safety and mental health. I don’t want him to feel sad or alone. And I want him to understand that I care that much. But I don’t, because I have no right to. We aren’t that close. I don’t even know if we’re friends. This makes me out to be a total creep. And he doesn’t care about me – he wouldn’t care that I care. The fact that I want him to be happy means nothing to him. Only, I don’t know that, and I’m too scared to find out. Because that would leave me in too vulnerable a state. Not to mention, it may turn out that I care a great deal more than I thought, which may very well break my damn heart. Because even though I care about him, I don’t trust him. I don’t think I can trust anyone other than the few that I do already.

For the record, “he” is no specific person. “He” is everyone.

All this trouble, and it’s not even a romantic sentiment. At least I don’t think it is – if it were, would I know? Anyway, I imagine I’ll never find out. I think I’ve already resigned myself to living and dying alone. And it’s not that I don’t mind – in fact, I have this foreboding sense of despair whenever I think about my future.

I really hate to be so melodramatic.

This makes me remember the last time I tried to “open” myself up. Only disaster. Three weeks, I almost couldn’t function: I literally felt my eyes drooping. When I relaxed my face muscles, they formed a frown. I couldn’t walk upright, because my chest felt heavy; I was dragging my heart across the floor. People around me noticed something was wrong – I don’t think I cared enough to try and hide it. I was grateful that no one really pushed the issue.

Even after this great winter break, I harbor no new hope for future relationships (or current and developing ones, for that matter). I don’t expect much out of anything.

The worst part is, I think I’m trying to prevent any more. It helps me cut down on people to care about. But damn people have to be so nice.

Which creates a completely different problem. For the past couple years, I’ve noticed a growing lack of sympathy. It’s not entirely unexpected, especially since for the most part this concerns people I don’t know personally. I don’t want to talk about it too much. And it’s not even out of shame for not caring.  Actually, I don’t really know what.  How do I explain something to paper?  There’s not even a need for me to.

I don’t know what kind of person I am.  I just know that I’m not sad.  I’m not an idealist.  I’m not expecting any sort of relief by making this public.  I certainly don’t expect any comfort from whatever anyone has to say, because I’m not looking for comfort.  I just need for people to understand me a little better.  It may be a little bleak, but I’m alright with all of this.

Some wouldn’t accept it, but I just want you to know that even though a lot of times I feel helpless, alone, and unfulfilled, I have enough moments of fun, happiness, rainbows, and sunshine out my ass to sustain my will to live and enjoy living.

I’m a terrible writer, but there was a time when I thought I was the best thing ever. I’m really grateful for high school: if there’s anything I learned from English it’s how pretentious I am.  The reality is, I don’t know how to organize my thoughts and have it make sense to anyone but myself.  Again, this is just a reflection of how self-serving I am.  I tend to give up really quickly, or want to start over all the time.  It has a lot to do with why I never update anymore.

Another part is because I know that no one is going to want to read the boring shit that never really happens.  Everything I have to say whenever I feel like writing is usually self-loathing (no one wants to read that), trivial enough to post in 140 characters or less (so I do exactly that), or more effort to write about than it’s really worth (I give up half-way).  Anyone who knows me knows how terribly lazy I am, and I have such a difficult time getting across what I want to say.

There’s really no sequence.  It’s little more than a rant, and I want to do more than that, but rarely do.

That said, I’m not going to finish this post.  I had more to say, but I never finish what I mean to say.

I really, really hate writing.

Please don’t respond.  I always get over it.

—————-
Now playing: The Strokes – 12:51
via FoxyTunes

But, there was no school today so I spent all of today doing nothing academic.  Except studying physics a little bit (because I’m beyond lost in that class…).  Though, I know I should have practiced and studied for tomorrow’s mini-meet and audition.

I sort of snapped yesterday.  I was easily irritable, and apparently someone else was having a bad day.  I tried to cheer her up, but she wouldn’t have it and I reacted badly.  But it’s alright.

The Academic Decathlon mini-meet was nerve-racking.  I had my speech memorized.  Sort of.  But I felt ready enough to struggle through the entire thing.  Definitely not what happened.

Instead, the first couple paragraphs were basically a breeze – a few minor hiccups, but no big deal.  Then things started to get fuzzy.  I knew I skipped a couple sentences, but I pushed on.  But when one of the judges held up the 1-minute card, I stopped mid-sentence and froze.

So, for the entire last minute, I was silent.  I opened my mouth to speak, promptly closing it when I realized I didn’t know what to say.  He held up the 1/2-minute card.  I deflated; my shoulders dropped and I let my arms hang to the side.  Then I started to count down from 30.

They looked unsympathetic, a bit miffed, and I was eager to leave.  I tried to shake their hands again, but the older judge said, “No, no, no, we’re not done yet.”  Fuck.  There’s more?

Oh, the impromptu.  Fuckshit.

The first impromptu option had the word “congress” in it.  No, not that.  The next one?  I could handle, with difficulty.

And for the longest 90 seconds in my life, I bullshat with a shaky voice and apologetic eyes.

Before I left the room:  “I apologize.”

Luckily, the interview was much easier.  Laugh at their dumb jokes, smile, act convincingly phony and lie out my ass.  They ate that up.  Excellent.  “Oh, yes, my hobbies are knitting, reading and playing music.”

Okay, so that wasn’t too much of a stretch.

I haven’t been getting enough sleep.  I didn’t sleep at all Monday or Tuesday night.  I should be sleeping now.  I have to rise early for the second half of the AcDec mini-meet tomorrow morning at 8am.  And go to All-Region auditions.  Not going to make it to Ivy rehearsal; the last one before the concert next Saturday.

Next Saturday, right after my ACT test.  Of course, first I need to worry about passing the physics momentum test Monday, completing the theory worksheets for honors orchestra Monday, completing the bio labs by Friday, reading The Aeneid through book 7 by Monday (maybe), editing and finalizing the CalTech essay by Monday for class, the calculus test on Thursday, the full orchestra rehearsal on Tuesday as we gear up for TMEA Honor Orchestra (with Wagner, Rimsky-Korsakov, and the Irish Suite), and completing unit 3 of economics by Thursday.  And whatever bullshit the AP English teachers feel like making us do.

I felt like I deserved a break today, but that was a really bad idea.

On a lighter note, I have managed to get to school early every day this week.  I like leaving early in the morning, before the street lights go out.  Not sleeping contributed to my ability to get ready for school by 7am.

When I don’t get enough sleep, I can’t put a filter on my mouth, and I say very racist things.  When I mentioned this on Friday, Wes thought I was literally trying to put a coffee filter on my face.

My room looks like Hell.

Breakfast.  No.  More like jumping cliffs.  I really admire Walt Whitman and his homosexuality.  Have you ever read poem 56 from Leaves of Grass?  “We Two Boys Together Clinging.”  That shit’s so cute.

It’s always been unclear to me whether or not my mom and dad wanted us to have children of our own.  I may have asked them before, but they never gave a straight answer.  It would always end with “but we will be happy no matter what.”  Naturally, I assume they don’t really mean this.

For years I’ve told myself that it’s better for society if I don’t spawn.  The reasons for this are many, but it all comes down to human nature and me fucking up.  Even after five years, I still harbor a significant amount of guilt for all the unhappiness I caused my family.  I don’t even want to imagine how it must have been for them.  My selfishness wants me to avoid ever being in such a situation – I’m too emotionally immature to ever be able to handle despair of such magnitude.

I’ve been content with the decision to not have children since, deciding it for the best.  I don’t really like kids, anyway.  Besides, I figured my brother would fulfill the accumulation of grandchildren.  I now have reason to believe this will not be the case.

I don’t know how important it is to my parents, and I don’t know how to ask.  For years the entire foundation of my future plans (hopes, dreams) have made no room for the possibility of me giving birth.  But whatever makes them happy.  I’m just worried about my brother, now.  I hope he figures out, soon, what can make him happy.

Edit:
I almost forgot: Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.