|So I told Kevin that I like Sam. Now that I've said it, I suppose it's true. I can't tell if Kevin and I are passed our awkwardness yet, after I hit on him a few weeks ago when I was lonely and longing and in love. I still love him, but it's more of a love for a friend plus an infatuation for the sake of having someone to sigh longingly over than unrequited love. I think. |
It takes six months to fully get over and move on from a long term relationship. It'll have been six months next week. It took me a while to distinguish the fact that I miss the feeling of being in requited love from the idea that I miss him. I still think about him too much but that's okay.
Sam is one of the most outright bizarre people I have ever pursued. It's almost adorable. I can't tell if he likes me or if he's just inherently an odd person. He tells me that the concept of dating makes his testes shrink and he shows me his neon pink pubic hair; he walks around naked and can't stop touching Lily (who I'm sure everybody thinks I have a crush on by now). Robert says its the latter, he is just bizarre, but Robert also happens to be a giant assface. He's still flirting with Rose. I know I should just be honest with her about not wanting a serious relationship with her, but bah. When has honesty ever worked out?
The thing about Sam is that he might be an actual;y genuine asshole. He's not like Robert or Daniel or Ford, who are assholes with a heart and soul. Sam might actually be that typical dickwad in high school who mocks you relentlessly because he can and who everybody hates, especially those who are capable of deeper thoughts, who doesn't really care about anything outside of his small sphere of existence, who just has no soul. Or he might not be. Who knows? Doesn't matter.
Link of the day: Extract from 'No Man's Land'
I really enjoyed reading even though I didn't enjoy reading her blog. Lately I've been in love with the type of writing where its beauty stems from the language itself, and not from the plot or the symbolism. I love the thrill of a good plot, and I'm in awe over the clever subtly of symbolism and motifs, but what haunts me late at night is the stringing of words to form art, the raw open wounds out there in plain sight. Writing sometimes should be like modern art, maybe: in your face about the cleverness of its usage of language.
I applied for jobs as a chef on boats by day, drank beer at night with other people like me, broke and selfish and unemployed and young and hungry for life. We had nothing to lose, and indeed, did not care even if we lost that, so long as on the way we felt the sting of our own existence.
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