Yet another summer has arrived and the long humid days are wearing thin on my heart. Not that school and responsibility is a better option, but I'm sick of feeling stuck. Stuck at home in bed, trying to sleep more than 5 hours, stuck watching redundant movies with friends I wouldn't miss if they packed up and left, stuck in suburbia, full of dogs who bark too much and birds who squack instead of chirp. Just stuck. It's like I've been dumped in a shallow pool of quicksand, forced to trudge along with no real sense of direction until I can find an exit. It's not dangerous, just irritating and exhasting. I decided to vist my dad last week, to liberate myself in some half ass way. But I guess I need something new, not old. Going back to your old hometown will just depress you with "what could've been's" and "how I used to be's." Not to mention three fully stocked liquor cabinets and infinate drug connections made my innocent visit less innocent and more groggy and unclear. My dad tries really, really hard though. I know he feels guilty about this past year, I know he's trying to redeem himself and fix every horrible thing he's put me through, but I just want him to stop trying. If anything, I think I should thank him. I've become desensitized. I take things less seriously now, and though I feel stuck, I can't imagine how I'd feel if I weren't totally corrupt. Not only that, but I understand why he did what he did. I understand why he left my mom, and why his emotions got the best of him, and why he made her life a living hell for six solid months. It wasn't right, but I understand that it was a human reaction, and I, of anyone else, should respect the fact that he's trying to stitch the wounds he's inflicted on our relationship. If I were my daughter, I don't think I would even make an attempt. I've been slowly making new friends and I think I'll put my best foot forward and whole-heartedly make an attempt at keeping them. It'll probably help me with the whole "stuck" thing. Who knows. New people, new hopes and aspirations, maybe this summer will lead to something positive.

I've gotten in the habit of writing in a real, tangible, journal. Not my thoughts, though. More proses and short stories. Truth is, I like what I write. I feel like I might have a future. I've also gotten in the habit of not over-analyzing lyrics. I don't know how successful I'll be on songmeanings now, but I was never too successful anyways. Looking back, it seems as if all I've ever wanted was for people to like me. I guess it still holds true. I'm glad I wrote that stuff, even if nobody ever saw it (truth be told, it's all a little boring) because now I know I've grown up in some small way. Grown up or stopped caring.

Summer is coming to an end. It's not like me to be dreading school as much as I am. I'm usually so excited. That's a fib of some sorts. I really am excited. I think people will like me. It seems that all I ever care about is people liking me. I applied for a job a week ago today. The owner told me he'd call me in a week. If he doesn't call me today, I don't know if I'll do anything about it. It's just some run of the mill coffee shop. I'm scared to have an interview. I know I'll sit there stuttering and giving pitiful answers to basic questions. Or who knows, maybe I'll be great. I want to be great. I am great.

You're right. I stopped trusting people a long time ago. Not long after you stomped on my heart. Get used to it, hun. You're not my one and only.

You just need me for comfort. You use me because you KNOW I'll always be there, no matter how many times you fucked me over. You like that I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. You like the chase, you like the neglect, and most of all, you like doing it all over again. And I let you. I will continue to let you. Wanna know why? Because, Dear, I like you. I like you a whole lot.

I have this horrible habit of obsessing over other people's lives. I swear, even with characters in books. I just sit all day and play out different situations that might pertain to someone else's life. It sounds sick and that's probably because it is sick. I hate finishing books. I hate not knowing what happens next, not being able to read anything further, not being able to feel like this character or do that to another. Today I actually cried when I finished a book I was really enjoying. The 500+ pages just weren't enough. I wanted more. I'm pathetic.

I'm a cynic and a skilled lucid dreamer. What a catch, huh? I think not.

So, I just made an account for song meanings, mainly for the journal feature. Figured nobody I know would really find this-unlike the whole live journal thing. I also won't be embarressed to write in it everyday because nobody will see how much extra time I really have. Moving sucks, getting situated sucks, and most of all, trying desperatly to get people to like you, yes you guessed it, sucks. My vocabulary is lacking.