I'll always be the strange, black girl in the corner of the party holding her breath pretending she doesn't exist. I will always be "too short" or "too white" for someone's liking. People will always mispronounce and misspell my name, despite my numerous corrections. I will forever remain suspiciously clever and unassumingly quiet (both of which prevent people from fully understanding me). I don't want to be understood. At least not by everyone. I suppose I think that would steal my essence, my charm, my mystery, all of which I strive to preserve. I shudder at the idea of being so pitifully superficial.
Pity. City. Bitty. Shitty. Shit. I keep having nightmares in which I do things I wouldn't normally do only to wake up feeling guilty that I did them, though only in my subconscious. It's almost funny because in reality, I have no desire whatsoever to do any of these things. In the dreams, I always have different friends. By different, I mean friends other people who actually aren't my friends or even acquaintances. Anyway, they convince me to do things that I detest and I wake up in cold sweats ready to vomit.
I am writing this plot-less blog at the suggestion of my younger brother. I was feeling a bit foamy at the mouth (if you get what I mean) and was on the brink of psychological collapse when he suggested I blog. Not that it would have been my first mental breakdown. In fact, I feel as though I have them more frequently than other girls who have nothing but couture magazines and boys driving fast cars flitting about in their brains.
It was supposed to storm tonight, but it wasn't much of a show. Two flashes of lighting and a distant roll of thunder. Poop.
Hopefully by this time next week things will be better and I won't have to write pitiful, shitiful blog entries.
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