Okay.
Okay. Ok. It's such a low-key word. Not fantastic, not wonderful, not happy or giddy or free. Not deep and introspective, optimistic pessimistic wide-eyed over-the-top in love.
Okay. I have a tendency toward the extreme. I don't really see you describing me as low-key. I'm not chill. I'm wired, I'm hyper, vivacious and high-strung. I'm awake and alive and some times even I wonder where the hell it all comes from. And then I have these weeks of fantastic sadness and apathy, and not many of you know it, but it's a trade-off and it's easy to forget that the lows are only defined by the highs. I can't fall any farther than I jumped to begin with; up and down are no different.
But today, I'm okay. And I like it.
Now for some housekeeping...
I hate doing the vague accusation thing, but I'm going to. Because my feelings are hurt, and I don't want to erase you. Or I do. Disappear please. Erase, I want to rub you out and forget all that I thought of you and how I loved you and believed you were more and less and had so god-damn much faith in you.
You have time. We all have time. It's not about time; it's about priorities. And you've made it clear what and who your priorities are and are not. You're the victim, I know, I'm sure. You you you him him fucking you. This is harsh, and part of me wants to backspace it into oblivion right now, but I am hurt, and angry, and sick to death of waiting for you to care when no one's looking. And I'm not ready to let go, but I'm to exhausted to hang on, and I don't have time. So, be happy, be stable, good for you. You're a million miles away, and even though I miss you, I understand that it's impossible to be close from so far.
I'll smile and I'll wave and maybe we'll have the occasional phone call, but I'm not waiting for you to care back. The end.
So, what I do have time for is the spiraling confusion of wonderful and horrible that is my life right now. aahhh. Right, you're right, you're so absolutely and completely right. But, for the first time in so so fucking long, I felt like maybe things could change. You aren't wrong, but you could be. And that was my last night. Right, wrong, right, wrong, and if I've changed my mind then what is it that makes me cry every god-damn time? Why does everything always come back to you?
How the fuck do you see right through me when I can hardly get a glimpse of what's going on underneath your surface?
Any way, in spite of all of this, I'm okay, beautifully and wonderfully okay. I feel like things are moving and happening and very optimistic about 19.
P. S. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. READ IT.
http://dictionary.reference.com/translate/text.html. traditional chinese.
Okay. Ok. It's such a low-key word. Not fantastic, not wonderful, not happy or giddy or free. Not deep and introspective, optimistic pessimistic wide-eyed over-the-top in love.
Okay. I have a tendency toward the extreme. I don't really see you describing me as low-key. I'm not chill. I'm wired, I'm hyper, vivacious and high-strung. I'm awake and alive and some times even I wonder where the hell it all comes from. And then I have these weeks of fantastic sadness and apathy, and not many of you know it, but it's a trade-off and it's easy to forget that the lows are only defined by the highs. I can't fall any farther than I jumped to begin with; up and down are no different.
But today, I'm okay. And I like it.
Now for some housekeeping...
I hate doing the vague accusation thing, but I'm going to. Because my feelings are hurt, and I don't want to erase you. Or I do. Disappear please. Erase, I want to rub you out and forget all that I thought of you and how I loved you and believed you were more and less and had so god-damn much faith in you.
You have time. We all have time. It's not about time; it's about priorities. And you've made it clear what and who your priorities are and are not. You're the victim, I know, I'm sure. You you you him him fucking you. This is harsh, and part of me wants to backspace it into oblivion right now, but I am hurt, and angry, and sick to death of waiting for you to care when no one's looking. And I'm not ready to let go, but I'm to exhausted to hang on, and I don't have time. So, be happy, be stable, good for you. You're a million miles away, and even though I miss you, I understand that it's impossible to be close from so far.
I'll smile and I'll wave and maybe we'll have the occasional phone call, but I'm not waiting for you to care back. The end.
So, what I do have time for is the spiraling confusion of wonderful and horrible that is my life right now. aahhh. Right, you're right, you're so absolutely and completely right. But, for the first time in so so fucking long, I felt like maybe things could change. You aren't wrong, but you could be. And that was my last night. Right, wrong, right, wrong, and if I've changed my mind then what is it that makes me cry every god-damn time? Why does everything always come back to you?
How the fuck do you see right through me when I can hardly get a glimpse of what's going on underneath your surface?
Any way, in spite of all of this, I'm okay, beautifully and wonderfully okay. I feel like things are moving and happening and very optimistic about 19.
P. S. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. READ IT.
http://dictionary.reference.com/translate/text.html. traditional chinese. 
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