the fleeting youth
"The goal isn't to live forever, the goal is to create something that will."
-Chuck Palahniuk
I'm eighteen.
I'm from Norcal, & it shows.
I go to UC Riverside and I'm a writing major, but don't expect too much.
I like vaguely referencing my life, posting pictures of delicious-looking food, finding inappropriately humorous photos, and venting on Tumblr. You get older every second, so let's embrace
So you like me.
& for that mistake on your behalf, I’m truly sorry. Look, I know it seems so easy and so simple, right? Two people with similar views of the world sharing some time and skin. Yeah yeah, whatever, I’ve had mine and you’ve had yours and your mind’s been marked up like a spy’s passport by now. But here’s the catch, the slipup, the point where things may go “pear-shaped”, as people like to confusingly call it: I’m in no state to be liked. And yes, I know being liked is passive. This ordeal, the whole unrequited-unlove thing, this requires no effort on my behalf. But I feel like letting you continue to like me while my heart’s in a fucking blender is kinda like leaving someone’s dentures on the ground. It’s nasty to do it, but nasty not to do it and that simile is reflective of how messed up my brain is at this point. Seriously, I like drinking tequila and joking around with you because it’s an outlet. If I were on a faux velvet couch in a psychologist’s office right now, they would tell me that being around you distracts me from my real life and lets me live in a fantasy state of perma-drunkenness that can’t actually exist.
Once our friend Jose Cuervo stops whispering fiction in my ear, I’m back to being my usual mess- the kind of mess that really should acquire my own warning label soon. I’m good at this- the build up, the lead in, the hunting aspect- because I’m competitive, and sadly this leads me to weird gray areas of emotion more often than not. Lately, I’ve decided to try this new thing I call “Pulling My Head Out of My Ass and Not Fucking With My Romantic Feelings For Sport”. A large part of this dealio means no feelings for me, no siree. And unfortunately, as much as your night will suck a proverbial dick at the end of the night when I don’t suck yours, I just don’t like you like that. I can’t see past the platonic haze hanging in front of my face as a result of far too many fist bumps and far too many instances of me hitting on your friends. Emotions haven’t been treating me the best lately, so I’m hopping off this train and catching the next layover to Indifference. Sorry dude. Now let’s go drink some tequila and forget about all this “feelings” shit.
