the last bit before I go to bed.
To tell the truth, I am fookin depressed. I don’t know what I’m depressed about so don’t ask.
Maybe it is PMS-ing or some weird shit going around the moon phases or something, but yeah. I’m kinda fucked up in places I’m not so sure if they are justifiable. Whatever.
I feel like I’m drunk without the high, carelessly barrelling through things I should be giving a damn about. I do give a damn, to tell the truth, but my reflexes are slow, and I have no focus on my priorities.
It’s shitty. Worse, I think I’m like this merely because of cowardice.
Cowardice, I tell you.
In fifth grade, my mom made me go to this camp thing (which I enjoyed, despite being stuck in the middle of a forest, having to face a friggin athletic obstacle course, with rich spoiled brats), and as part of the said cursed obstacle course, I had to cross a very short felled log over a foot-wide creek. The creek was so narrow, I didn’t really have to go through that bridge; I could just skip over it. But one of the guides said I had to, and being the incredibly passive girl I was — am— I stepped on the effing log. Now, I had just finished Slide For Life and Rapelling and some other nerve-wrecking Rope Bridges, all done with a devil-may-care quickness and desire to impress with my boyishness. And yet, the moment both my feet were on that log, I froze.
I think that was when I first understood the meaning of fear.
It was completely illogical. The worst that could happen was that I would get my feet wet. And yet, for some strange strange reason, I could not move a muscle on that bridge. I scared to fall.
Oh hey look. I just psychoanalyzed myself.
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I have colds again. Really, how are they doing with the cure for the common cold?
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Cowardice has an unlimited shelf life.
-Xander Harris, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997)
welcome back, dude.