Well I don’t really know where to begin on this one—I have a lot pent up that is probably about to come out in free flow– you’ve been forewarned. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything, which scares me. I love writing. I think I kind of gave up on writing because I have no stories that I want to make up. I want to talk about my real problems, of which there are many (princess problems, someone once told me, but that doesn’t change the fact that they sit and fester if I don’t do something to get them out of me)—I want to talk about real life—but who will want to read this? Maybe I’m just too into myself to be able to get out of myself enough to invent stuff that matters— but isn’t that kind of how it goes, for “writers”? You live your life, get old, and retire to a log cabin somewhere and write your life into stories and elaborated truths? Or is that just what people with too many problems and too much time on their hands do? I guess I wouldn’t really call myself a writer, then. I don’t know what I am—maybe I’m just a cluster fuck of self-obsession and self pity. I do love myself, though; don’t get me wrong— I love being conflicted. It’s what makes me want to write stuff like this down. It may not be some artistic or intellectual achievement, but at least it’s honest, and that’s all I really want to be anyway, at the bottom of things. Perhaps I do suffer from some form of narcissism and perhaps I do think that I shit gold, but I’ve had this feeling since I was little that I’m supposed to do something great and novel and fabulous in this lifetime—a fantasy of potential in which I doubt I am alone. Maybe it is ego, and maybe I just hope that I am special because my greatest fear is that I have no purpose, but I have always felt as though I’ve stuck out somehow, and not always in a way that’s been comfortable. I brought the yellow apple to school when everyone else brought red and green, never was very “cool” and then hated myself when I attempted to be. That feeling of being an outcast is lonely. It is somewhat damaging. And yet, in an odd way, there is also comfort in knowing that you are unlike “the others”. There is something nice about being lonely and different, because with that loneliness there is hope that you really are meant for something else that you can’t quite yet understand. I don’t know when it will happen—and that’s the part that causes me some insecurity at times. I feel passionate, but not exclusively in one field. I’m jealous of people who are, because they seem to have it easy. My passion is just slightly more vague—I’m passionate about life, as stupid and as trite as that may sound. I am passionate about people and about moments and about feeling total and complete despair at times and complete bliss at others. And I think I’m supposed to do something with all of that, I just don’t know what yet. So what do I do in the mean time, while I trust that it will all work out? I’ve dated boys and have fallen in love and have been rejected. I’ve attempted to climb huge, figurative mountains and have failed. I have done so many things that haven’t worked out thus far—but somehow I still have hope that at one point, it all will, and so I keep on picking myself up and putting myself out there, so that one day I feel whole. And then, and only then, will I maybe write something that isn’t a semi useless rant on my life.