Depressed. I'm not in the mood for patrol tonight. Work is too boring and inane to even blog about. I saw Margo today, and I don't even remember what she was wearing - that's how bad I am.
I come home, work out for an hour, take a bath, then make a mix disc full of sad songs while I eat cold pizza. And no, I don't put REM's "Everybody Hurts" on my disc. I may be juvenille, but even in my malaise I still have my standards. I end up with Neko Case, Johnny Cash, some Morrissey, some Sarah McLachlan, and others that I'm too embarassed to write down. So what if I like "Send In The Clowns"? Sue me, all right? Anyway, to butch up my disc I throw in "Love Hurts" by Nazareth, who rawk.
I cap off the rest of the evening by downing successive bottles of ale and watching Casablanca, which makes me cry. Am I growing breasts? Because I feel like I'm turning into a woman. At least I don't gorge myself on chocolates.
I crawl into bed late. The sheets still smell like her. I should probably wash them.
3 comments:
Wow, the Velvet Marauder is acting very...velvety
Remember that earlier in the week I kicked the head off of a zombie and beheaded many more with a tire iron. I mean, that's pretty butch, surely I get props for that.
Who am I kidding, I'm turning into a girl...
Yes, watch the boobies. You know wantta no boobies. Anyway, it's alright, all men (and boys) have times in their lives where we have to do something we should NEVER have to do except with the closest of close friends and, if you're religious, God: talk about our feelings. I know it hurts.
Eh, what do I know, I'm going through puberty. Most things that happen to me that are like this are phases (did I spell that right?) of depression and attacks of hormones.
It's alright though. You're friends'll be there for you.
OR, maybe, you could tell your brother about being a hero and (after you get him to believe you) you can confide in him.
Post a Comment