VeNtInG mAcHiNe WiTh No CaTeGoRy
By the totally kickass moi, Brittany Pears
Their shouting. Shit. That means their fighting again.
Of course. Way to go genius.
I'm not good with words. I can't describe a daffodil in full season bloom. Nor can I compare a work of beauty created by the divine nature to a machine made intact by overworked human's dirty hands. I lose myself in words; get lost trailing their endless paths and patterns. My written work is all dilly dally, a confusion of blended meanings and sentences and all that crazy, messed up junk drawer confusion. I honestly don't even know what I'm blabbering about now. That's ok though. Because this is my feelings book, my hot n cold, topsy turvy, uh oh book. A place where my brain can flow out on that weird paper shaped thing on Microsoft Word and no one but me me me can read it and rejoice at the celebration of me!
I like me. Why shouldn't I? Everyone should like themselves otherwise no one else will. And I want people to like me. I want to feel needed, loved, and meaningful. I want to be more than a product and outcome of a one night stand, which forced my parents to give up their lives and marry.
I matter. I have a definition, a meaning for existence. I must. Everyone does.
I think.