Ever feel like you could crush some bones? Not only in every body you see, but your own? That's how I've been feeling these past few days. I don't know what's working in me, but there is certainly something. I feel sick, but I'm not. I feel tired, but I can't sleep. I want to shake babies, but that's against everything.
What do I do? Babble. Rant. Vent. Because that is why I decided to blog in the first place.
Hey, it's cheaper then anger management.
Why am I so angry all the time anyway? Could it be I've been used, walked on, abused, forgotten, and loved way too much all at the same time? All those extremes can really work wonders on a young gal. What's funny is I rarely show when I have a deep emotion who is disguised as a murder rabbit (like from Monty Python) waiting to kill everything in sight. How do I do it? I'm really asking because I don't have a clue. I spent this whole day doing some serious hard work, like the kind that makes you say "Ouch, my spleen.." in hopes of ventilating this fiery fume within without the use of a keyboard. Didn't work.
I'm slowly beginning to realize that no matter how much I try and cover up the fact that I am happy being alone, I'm seriously not. Not in a sense of dating, just in general. I'm literally a person that needs to be around another sociable people at all times. If I'm not, I get incredibly bored and therefore, I truly lose it. I even pace sometimes. I've tried everything from writing freehand, music, drawing, more music, walking my dog, talking to animals..Eliza Thornberry could do it and that woman was never bored. But how could you get bored with such an irregular shaped head? That has nothing to do with what the purpose of me writing this is, so back to reality.
I'm trying to allow this to help me, but it feels deeper then that. Sometimes I feel that if I moved into an old refrigerator box in an alley downtown, my life would seem more appealing in my own eyes. I could be that creepy chick that creeps into someones life, talks to them a while, gets a quarter, and is content. I would then play heads-or-tails with it, and be bored again..but no matter. Then I would just have to come up with something new to do. Like call old friends!
And man do I miss them. I don't think that they realize they are all on my mind every single day that passes. I worry sick about them, just like I had when I saw them every day in the past. Sometimes I feel like it will be years and years until they start to fade away. Part of me never wants that to happen, the other part is asking if that's already happened with them. I want to see those kids become something truly amazing. From what I learned from them all the years we were together, each of them were the most unique individuals I had ever, and will ever meet. No one in our group was the same. I kinda pretended I was the Momma, because I seemed to always be thinking like one. With my worry wort personality, and always had the concerned conscience voice screaming in the back of my head, I thought I would drive my friends nuts. We were all brothers and sisters that loved each other that way. All we cared about was attempting to see one another everyday, and make the days always count. There was always something different to do, but we chose to do the same things over and over. Which, when I think about it now, was really okay.
We all had rough spots, and some scary ones. But, when it all adds up, we were just kids being kids. Going to shows, driving too fast, staying out late, etc. That's what we did! There was even a train bridge involved but we won't go into detail.
I always wonder to myself what would happen if I just mosied on back. Sat down to play some Halo with the old crew, and picked up on laughing at stupid things just one more time. I even get to the point where I'm nearly hovering the "call" button on my phone, but hesitate for the fear of being rejected. Or maybe it's something else stopping me, who knows.
At any rate, if you were wondering, I am now calm and feeling totally capable in taking on life once more. If I were a therapist, and my patient was on their last leg, pleading for advice of what they need to do to settle their wonky selves down, I would simply say "Blog, ya wonky."
If I decided to write a blog for every time I had a moment of insanity, I would nearly be finished with my first novel in the past week. Try walking a mile in Holland's shoes.
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