now now now I was reading over B's list of what he loves about me (I have one for him too). Yes. Because we're disgusting. Google saved them for us. I should know about these things but it's hard to care. I'm just waiting to phlegmatically say 'I told you so' when the robots decide to eat us. The point is--I found other things Google saved. I found an old love letter from someone I never met and I found an essay that saved my ass in university. This has led me to conclude two things-- 1. It is dangerous to date writers. 2. I am not a writer. The love letter was beautiful bullshit. Expertly designed to melt any vagina and customized for mine. And my essay was short. It was supposed to be twenty pages but I wrote five. It was about film and ethnography and I made a reference to Boal. And I didn't fail. Because I thought that maybe if I was sincere my professor would like me. And he did. I remember I sat down with my friend and really talked about my topic. She still remembered it years later and emailed me about it. I miss that sense of purpose. But I want to fight for aimlessness too. I don't want every conversation/interaction to be a check up on goals. I want to schedule in purpose for an hour every day and dedicate the rest of it to being useless and alive. I don't like the future. I don't. I don't like the past either lately. I was thinking about M's green glass star and C's necklace. I want to throw them away. |