This May Sound like Jibberish to You, but I Think I Am In A Tragedy.

I want to be an author.

I want to write stories about 20-something girls named Maddie Crane, who walk down gray suburban streets in the middle of winter and wear lime green hoodies and patent leather shoes.

I want to sit on city transits and contemplate plot development. Character death. Sentence structure.

I want to sit in front of my macbook for days on end in a red cardigan sweater and flannel pajamas surrounded by empty take-out cartons and with my phone off the hook. I want my neighbor to leave post-its on my door for my friends in black sharpie. She's dead this time, I swear.

I want shadows under my eyes and inky fingertips.

Come with me, My Love

Daisychains and cool grassy fields. Listening to Cat Power's "Sea of Love" on repeat.
I want to feel the red sunset on my skin.

Summer is such a romantic idea when there is snow on the ground.

Tonight was Amanda's birthday party. I got her a truffle, a pink princess cup, two game tokens and an IOU for something greater in the future.

She whipped my ass in Skeeball, and I am still mourning the fact that I am too old to play in the ball pit without getting thrown out.

Hold this thread as I walk away

Being an adult is awkward. Not unpleasant, just awkward as fuck.

It feels like being in an independent film. Shit like this just doesn't happen in real life. Or high school.

So this is how January 21st went for me.

Scene: Me and Tiffany in the bathroom getting ready to go see Juno with Drew, Katie, Tess and Sam.

Me: (Turning to Tiffany) I need to tell you something because if I don't, you are going to find out eventually and get mad at me.

Tiffany: (stops applying eyeliner) okay.

Me: Okay. On my blog, and to all my friends, and on myspace... I've been referring to you as my girlfriend. I just thought I should let you know.

Tiffany: (Raises eyebrow) you should look at my myspace sometime.

Apparently she was one step ahead of me, if in a relationship is anything to go by.

How does she do that? Those of you who aren't jealous are idiots. I have managed to catch the interest of quite possibly THE most awesome person on the face of the planet.

Don't bother asking me how I did it because to be honest, I have no fucking clue.

Start talking "a sensationalist"...

It's 3am- I am tired and my eyeliner is smudged but I am in a somewhat more contented state-of-mind then I was last night. I think it might have had something to do with the look on my girlfriend's face when I animatedly explained everything.

It screamed 'All this over an exclamation point?' and then she said "Yeah... so?"

So I will stop obsessing by simply vowing to take a sharpie to my Pretty. Odd. album. There WILL be punctuation, even if I have to put it there myself. That way I can be happy and Tiffany can go back to steadfastly ignoring the fact that her girlfriend is certifiable.

An exorcism is in order.

What do you do when your own thoughts make you physically ill?

I don't want to like anything anymore. Why can't I have that apathetic indifference everyone under 30 raves about? I get too attached and then when things change I can't function.

It's a fucking exclamation point.

I have officially hit an all time low.

Wish that I was as invisible as you make me feel

Fuck.

I'm sitting in a living room that isn't mine...

Anything is better than home right now.

The snow is falling outside and it feels like I could stay here forever.

I am currently wearing my devil horns hat and big white sunglasses, cuddling with a pug named after an AFI member, trying not to think about things that make me want to bash my own head in with a 2x4.

Old TAI TV episodes are the strongest medicine, and even that is only slightly helping.

Worshipping at the Church of Hot Addiction

So me and Katie have tickets to go see Cobra Starship February 7th at the Big Easy in Boise. It's nice to have a concert to look forward to again.

It's been what, six months since Projekt Revolution Seattle? I had almost forgotten what it was like, this pre-concert high.

"fuck the way i am in love with being a mess."

Patrick, how the fuck do you survive this constant trainwreck?

I need to know your secret so I can start sleeping again.

The woeful expression of my tortured soul

Look! A BLOG.

how original of me, yes? Even the title of this entry doesn't belong to me, it belongs to some random MCRmy member. I just couldn't be bothered to think of anything original AND creative at 4:45 am, so I settled for plagerism.

I am not old. Not in the slightest. I have my ENTIRE LIFE ahead of me. Why do I feel too old to be sitting here writing to a non-existant audience? Maybe it's because it feels a little too close to having an imaginary friend.

My eyes burn (in the painful physical way, not in the poetic way), my new tat itches like no motherfucker knows, and the title to this entry is starting to sound more serious than sarcastic, so I better go before I stop sounding like a grumpy 21 year old and start sounding like an angsty teenager.

Besides, I suppose I should earn my pay and do some work.