What did he just write?

Every single time I write something here on wordpress, I feel like I regress to the 13-year-old that I once was, complaining to the world that wouldn’t listen about how life is hard and bleak. I’m sure this means something. Perhaps it means that I only ever feel like writing “blogs” when I’m not particularly in the happiest of mindsets. Or maybe I only ever log in when I’m feeling particularly poignant or introspective. Neither of these seem right, though.

Or rather, one seems more invalid than the other. The only reason why I’m even sitting and writing this stunning piece of prose is because I’m stranded on campus because my bus only ever comes in hour and a half intervals. So I’m sitting in one of the learning computer labs on campus waxing pseudo-philosophical while listening to the Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World soundtrack, which as it happens, is very good.

The only thing I can really definitively differentiate between prepubescent me and me right now is that my vocabulary has gotten better. That’s about the only thing I can really say, however. I still know very little about music, although I now think of the radio as white noise for driving rather than a source of excellent tunes. I’m also prone to these particularly annoying bouts of not-quite-loneliness and, for a lack of a better, more fitting term, emo-ness. Ah, I also seem to make sense only to me. This can be argued with the idea that nobody can really make sense of another’s musings, that people are inherently trapped within their own head, but even then, I’m sure that means nothing more than chucks are lost in translation. My case seems to be not only an inept translator, but the dialect is unknown and foreign.

Even when I read that last paragraph back, I can’t help but be angry at the person who wrote it.

And now I must leave, for my bus is to come in any minute and I do not want to spend another hour and a half sitting outside, staring at my phone, feeling like Holden in a phonebooth. I sincerely doubt that I’ll be cheerier the next time I feel compelled to write here, but anything is possible. It is the 21st century after all.

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