Twenty Seventh

Someone asked me, "When they call you weird and you sarcastically thank them, do you honestly not care?"
I replied, "Yeah. I don't."

The thing is,
I don't have to impress you.
It's hard enough liking myself.
I don't need to be liked.

Twenty Sixth

I don't know why it is the way it is.

When I'm angry, my writing grows more and more obscene. More and more unnecessary curse words, italicized for emphasis on screaming. I ramble and ramble because actually speaking and talking about how I feel is the last thing I want to do but the first thing I can.

When I'm smitten, it shows. It just shows through and the endings are all happy and I can't write unless it has a sweet moment, a tender exchange. I can't even think without smiling and that smile becomes the intent of the writing. I write to share the happiness.

It's completely transparent.
My writing is just completely transparent.
I think if you analyze my writing enough, you can know.
You can know me.
I hate that about it sometimes.

Twenty Fifth

I'm the kind of person who's more drawn to gay storylines on television shows.
Mostly because they're all based on trust and being brave.
And then eventually about giving in to something you just can't fight.
That's cool.
That's what all relationships should be about.

Twenty Fourth

I'm such a hopeless romantic.
It's just.
It's just so bad.
It's really really hard to be a romantic
when you have so little faith in people and love.