Right now, things are not going too well. It's late, I'm sick, I'm helplessly and haplessly attempting to do well on a take-home math test which I have been working on for the past four hours or so. I'm not even half done. In my frustrated state, I meander over to a blog of one of my friends'. I secretly adore him, and his assumed unrequited affections lead me to stalking him through his blog. Dear Lord. The biggest reason I do this is because he writes so eloquently...his thoughts tumble forth and make me more inspired to write myself. But somehow when I start writing, my thoughts seem simple and mundane compared to his, and I become bashful with my supposed writing talents. As if anyone actually reads this blog anyway.
The biggest thing I've been struggling with lately is lack of direction in my life. I feel that every moment defines who one is or who one will be in some small way, and by making even the most sub-conscious, infinitesimal choices one is forever adding or deducting from one's personality. This is probably misguided and silly, but I tend to believe it regardless. Take last night, for example. It was one of the worst nights I have had in a while, due to a boy with whom I have a history with refusing to talk or look at me while he talks to a girl standing right next to me, taking care of a boy who tripped on some stairs and needed convincing to go to the hospital for stitches, being at a party where I'm sober and trying to be friendly and introducing myself to new people (since I only knew a couple people) and the girls completely ignoring me, finally getting home around 2:30am and receiving a call from a severely inebriated friend who wanted to crash on my floor, which turned into him, another friend, and I having some very sloppy conversation in which the severely inebriated one said a lot of inappropriate things. I finally head to bed around 3:00am, only to be waken at 4:00am to a drunk call from a boy demanding I bring his keys over to his house. I drove over, drove him to Wal-Mart for a pizza, and drove him back home; only to find that he had his room key with him the entire time. Around 5:00 I'm back in bed. Longest night ever, and I just wrote a huge paragraph writing about the longest night ever. Shit. New paragraph.
The point is: I did everything I did last night to try to be a good person. A responsible, nice, good person. And I ended up miserable and upset, tired and thankless. What should I surmise from that?
Ugh. I just spent a lot of time writing about things that frustrate me and are actually pointless, since they are over now. See? I told you I'm a bad writer.