Hi.

I'm in a really nostalgic mood all of a sudden...which is probably due to the weed I'm currently smoking. Anyways.

I don't know why I've been thinking about my high school friends and how distant I feel from them as of late. When I think back, I remember that there were some friends who were sometimes really good to me and seemed to really like me--and at the same time I remember the feeling of how 'not cool' I was to them. (I must say it's a very confusing thought.)

I don't think I ever told my friends when I did feel wanted and loved. Was that a reason why they sort of drifted away? Who says that to friends? I would feel hella-gay if I actually said that to a friend, and I'm sure the friend on the receiving end (heh) would feel the exact same way...right?

I have given an effort and tried to get together with the people I've drifted away from, but I never really saw a return on that. I also feel intimidated when I'm trying to contact them. I dunno.

Oh, and I hope you're reading this, Claire: I might not be up when you phone. As you can see, this was written pretty late. I'm sure you can put 2 and 2 together.

I Love it when the News is Bad

When I think of my friends from high school, I realise that not a lot of them really respected me. My name was constantly smeared across insults by some members of my group when I wasn't around. I never really accepted this little factoid until last night whilst talking to Claire. Not a lot of the people I hung out with liked me for who I was. The people who I do talk to after high school are few in numbers, and some of them are people I wasn't really that close with in the first place.

Even now I have some high school friends who I'm not completely comfortable being myself around, or opening up to--and this is the reason why I have two journals. One journal (my Livejournal) is strictly for keeping in touch with some friends, and, well, to post random, inconsequential stuff. This journal is to somewhat express myself; to let some friends get a glimpse of my inner workings. I've only told one high school friend about this trite. I've built up some sort of protective wall to shield myself from some high school friends and their comments. I wouldn't dare post an entry from this journal in my Livejournal.

University has definitely changed me. I wasn't afraid of being me, or what my friends thought. The idea of my friends talking behind my back has never blossomed, and will most likely stay dormant. It's a weird and welcoming feeling.

In other news, I had to drop that creative writing course I was admitted to; it caused too many conflicts with my engineering schedule. Boourns, as they say.

Old Familiar Way

I tell Scott what really bothers me. He tells me he's sorry. I tell him it's okay. And then the cycle repeats. I don't know whether it's me being naive or me being in love with him that keeps me believing what he says. You can't change someone--I know that. Actions speak louder than words. Etc.

I don't know what it is about love that makes me addicted. Maybe it's the fact that it has fused itself to each living cell in my body. Maybe it's the fact that my brain has opened up new receptors to accept the drug-like emotion. I don't know how his smile fills me with happiness and I don't know how his touch sends me into realms I never knew existed. But I do know it'd be very hard to live with out those small and seemingly menial, yet wonderfully life-affirming, things. He's driven me to a point where I can't imagine a world with out him. When I think of the future, he's filling up most of it. He's making the glass half full. We were talking about the future, and how I want to do some major traveling after I'm done school. He said "I just hope you don't go anywhere I can't follow."

What is it about wanting Someone to see how we've evolved into the person we are today? Wanting Someone to prove our existence is worthy and just?

Maybe it's the familiarity that I don't want to let go of; everyone has some sort of fear of change embedded into them. But I doubt this Sameness causes my heart to skip a beat and my blood cells to glow.

I'm tired.

Smells like Bullshit

I can't fucking take this anymore.

An Opening

I think I know what it is:

Actually, I thought I knew what it was, but when I read what I wrote, it sounded retarded. And, thus, I'll swallow this uncomfortable thought and move on.

I WIsh I Had an Evil Twin

I've just been injected with this incredible urge to write. However, I have no direction or substance to help me out, so whatever's coursing through my veins is making me a tad frustrated.

Just a little while ago I felt like crying. I don't know what triggered such a state of mind--I was just minding my own business when it suddenly struck. One of the great mysteries of life, I suppose.

I don't know what to say. Maybe I'll go play video games to fill this void that's erupting inside of me.

Part Deux

I have found myself becoming an awkward twat when I'm complimented; I try not to blush and fumble around in the dark for something to say. I find saying "thank you" too traditional and I feel it doesn't really show how much the compliment means.

In high school, the best compliment I got was "you're so smart". I didn't feel out of place when it was said because I could prove it by doing well on tests and helping friends out in subjects like Calculus and Physics. The other day Eric had made a comment to Cindy when it was the three of us walking back from the Lodge: "I'm so glad your friends are cool" (or something to that extent). I didn't know how to respond--I was very rarely considered 'cool' by friends and, well, never considered myself cool. My less than suave response was to stammer and say, "thanks?".

What am I trying to say? I don't know; it was lost in the plot.

I think I feel bad for getting complimented because...sometimes I don't feel it's true. I was called all sorts of things other than cool in elementary school and high school, and I think it's screwed up how I take compliments. Scott's always telling me to take the damn compliment, and maybe I should listen. I don't want to boast or anything, but I never knew how good it felt to be called 'cool'.

How do you take a compliment?

Sleeping in is...giving...in?

I need more straight boy high school friends who won't flake out on me every chance they get and who won't get over emotional over everything and who will put forth a genuine effort to try and get together. It would seem this summer has been a blast on the occasions I've seen university friends or even friend's friends. (Give or take one or two events). Example: Scott's friends like it when I visit and try to convince me to hang out with them all the time. (I'm so glad I've gotten to know some of Scott's peeps--they're so cool and fun.) I may be on the outside looking in, but I've witnessed so many other groups of friends from high school who seem more tight than the group of friends I'm in. Hell, I don't even think I'm part of a group of friends from high school; I know a few people who I regularly talk to and who I sometimes see. Oh, well--c'est la vie, right? Hopefully I'll land this bakery job so it'll occupy the time when I'm not having a blast with friends who like to get together.

Fuckin'

There's this creative writing course offered at Queen's, y'see, and I think I'm going to apply. I need to rummage through my old short stories to find a good one to apply with, as well as write some cover letter describing why I want to take the course. This is due today. Wish me luck.

I've been in a weird mood as of late. I find myself wanting to write something with meaning and substance instead of the same old 'blandiocrity' that I continuously spew out. The trouble, however, is found in the fact that I have nothing to say. Or, rather, I have much to say, but I can't figure out how to say it so I don't come off as some armchair philosopher who's smoked himself retarded. Or maybe it's some deadly combination of the two, which just increases my doubt in my writing ability.

One of the main reasons why I want to take the creative writing class is so I'm forced to write. But what will happen if I'm forced to write when I have nothing to talk about? It might not blow over well, that's for sure; but at least I'll be writing /something/, which is a lot more than what I can say now. I hope the prof finds my short story as amusing as my old Writer's Craft teacher did...though I have a sneaking suspicion that she was just crazy and loved anything. I mean, in the middle of one class she splurted out, "my family has a history of mental illness" and giggled to herself before she continued her marking. I'll be sure to keep my hopes low.