Man,

I don’t think any person is capable enough to deal with the entirety of my being.

Hashtag sucks.

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Oh, The Mysterious Ways of Human Connection.

Ah, sweet mystery of life! (Sexual)

I do not like that I do not know the rhyme and reason of all the shimmering love beams that shoot out around the world. I do not like that I can not see their futures. I basically want to be God. With a boyfriend. Man friend. No boys allowed.

But, with great power comes great responsibility, and we all know how much I dislike that. So, no, won’t become God, thanks for not asking.

It’s just frustrating to comtemplate this weird thing of love, and try to nail down the reasons for all of its quirks and shiz. Why does one person choose the other? Why does the other sometimes not choose back? Is it destiny and fate and one for one, or is it convenience and proximity perchance? God, I hope not. You need to pair everyone, Noah-style. The animals, not that weirdo family.

And, as Louie C.K. said, there doesn’t seem to be someone for everyone. But WHY NOT? Are their someones just inconveniently in Botswana? Or are some people just destined to be alone? That by itself could be romantically depressing, but the notion that love is merely happenstance and that there could not be a fated One makes me Angry, and you don’t want to see me when I’m Angry (I overeat).

How cheap does that feel? I do not want love reduced to mere coincidence. IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE MORE MAGICAL THAN THAT. People are supposed to meet and supposed to love each other because THEY’RE SUPPOSED TO  BECAUSE MAGICAL AND MYSTICAL AND GOD-DIRECTED REASONS. Not just because. I will not leave my heart and soul up to circumstance. That Will Not Do, Pig.

I am whining from a personal level, but I am also widening my scope and whining for all those who feel a little cheated when it comes to the love game. (YOU THINK THIS IS A GAME?!) Sometimes, it feels that way, but I don’t want it to be. It can be game-like in that it’s fun and slightly competitive (ahhh) but not like a game in that I don’t want to compete with other organisms for the affection of that organism that I do want so very urgently.

So, again, repeating myself. Like, I always do. I want George of the Jungle and I want him to want Me. ONLY ME. (I have all the bananas.)

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Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes!

I am in a transitionary period. I said this before, but re-thinking it.

I don’t like change and it could all end in a fiery disaster. With pain. Lots of pain.

 

 

But it’s kind of exciting too. (:

OPTIMISM PHWHOOARRAAAAT? Where did this happen from? What are this?!

 

From de Jesus. You’re great, Dude. Always caring about my hair more than a sparrow and shiz. You’re the cat’s pajamas, Man. Love Ya.

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Look Hahhhdahhh.

I am very sleepy. But I have a thought.

That part of The Lion King when Rafiki is trying to show Simba his reflection and how his dad lives on in him and there’s lots of liony emotional baggage. I was thinking about this ri’ now.

I go back and forth on my view of myself. Most of the time I think I am a freaking catch. Lots to offer, and basically quality stuff. Then, I also get down on myself (not in the ‘do a little dance’ way, the self esteem issue way) and see me through the warped and fallen world’s eyes and see no worth. Lies, because I am worth something just by the mere fact that Jesus thinks so and He’s great and makes good life decisions.

So, betwixt this dichotomy of self-image, the dance between self-infatuation and self-loathing, I sometimes arrive at the conclusion that I am great, but it is hard to notice. Hence, the Rafiki reference. I’d like to go up to people that I see so much worth in that don’t seem to reciprocate, grab them by the upper arms and shake, adamantly and imperatively quoting this line to their face. “LOOK HAHHHDAHHH. Look into me and see what God sees. Ignore all the marks and bumps and wear on this person-suit my soul wears, and see the Being within. I see yours and I really like it. Your suit is also dead sexy, but that’s a different and more carnal point that I am not trying to make and actually trying to avoid making and I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place.” Maybe I’d paraphrase that… but you get the gist.

Anyway, just thought that as I was doing the evil act of comparison whilst looking through the book at photos of people and things.

No head shrinking of myself tonight. I am le tired.

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ON THE BRIGHT SIDE

The sooner, the better, I guess.

Kill it with fire, or it will be stronger for all the flames.

DRACARYS.

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Can I Just Not?

I need to just not.

It would be much better if I didn’t.

When I do, things go awry. Stuff gets stupid and it’s no good.

I am worse when I do. I am better when I don’t.

I should not.

Stop it now, me. Stop!

Just. Stop.

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Marrrgh Bler Flugggt Rarkkk!

R does seem to be the consonant that best expresses frustration. Or at least a guttural emotion-filled reaction to almost unbearable stimuli.

I feel all transitionary and shiz again. I don’t like it! But I do. But I don’t know! I am now being one of those people I like to mentally slap ‘cross the face. Like da bass. But harder.

There’s just people and things and emotions and stuff happening in this “reality” that I don’t enjoy participating in usually because I’m not that great here, not as fantasmic as I can be in purely imagined discourses and happenings. But, the stimuli! The friggin’ stimuli!

I can’t let anyone ever read this crap. I am a whiny 8th grade girl here. But ughhhhh! I am it here so I can go on elsewhere as this enlightened, cool, maTure and together thing that is older and more better at emotion and relationship and human contact. So, cut me some slack, me. GAHHHH.

I. Di. Gress. Lemme me break it down (fellas, lend me some sugar. FELLA. Singular! Flerp!)

One: old one just pert-perting around, being friendly. that thing has had pudding skin on it for a while so nothing going and that’s fine. but it’s an additive to this situational poop stew. Gross. Sorry.

Two: bright shiny new is great again, and i am all a-flutter slash HORRIFIED because I am so much better not in person I think! so, breaking the fourth wall that is my only protection from truth and turning off EVERYONE, that prospect is scary and I don’t like feeling like a naked turtle! (Plus, he looks like a friggin’ Disney prince so THAT’S NOT HELPING BUT I LIKE IT.)

Three: i don’t even know what to call now. curse words. expletives. just terrible. whatever. he decides to tra-la-la in and use me as an emotional buoy. thanks! that’s what i’m here for! saving your Sandra Bullocky butt from emotional Alaska water! and seagull poop! lovely, I was so looking forward to our little chat. so, there’s that, and this thing is transitioning to pudding skin and i’m obviously pissed.

and pissed at myself because i decided to get wayyyyyyyyy too emotionally invested in a fantasy. and HE’S FRIGGIN’ JIMMY JR. AND JIMMY JR. IS A JERK AND A WIENER.

so, i want to very badly move on to the friggin’ Disney prince and for it to be quite lov-e-ly and wonderful and fancy and great. of course, i will probably ruin and soil and sour it with expectation. and body fat. i need a partial and selective lobotomy perhaps. maybe just shocks. i don’t even know.

oh, i really, really can’t let anyone ever read this.

God, you have a warped sense of humor. i like that, just not in these exact moments. can’t you do it to someone else and we can laugh together? yes, we do it. AGHHHHHHHH.

I’m Allison Reynolds, but i’d never dump my purse on the couch and invite people into my problems, EMILIO. put your shirt back on.

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