Thoughts Of My Malfunctioning Mind

I’ve had too many thoughts to explain. Here’s the review:

1. Love songs written by men are bullshit. Love songs written by women are pathetic. Reality check: whatever the hell you’re singing about doesn’t work in real life. Stop giving youth false hope.
2. Tug-of-war isn’t a fun game to have with your own brain. Reality and fantasy need to stop blending, it’s fucking up my thoughts.
3. Children under the age of 8 should not be at skate parks using “fuck” as half of their vocabulary. They also shouldn’t be given a lighter and bottle rockets by a 17 year old. (No, Chris, it isn’t funny.)
4. I need to stop being so nice. I have spent more money on Gatorade for the guys than I have on Mountain Dew for myself.
5. When a gas station employee knows you by name, you need to stop going to said gas station. “We’re out of Mountain Dew. Sorry Kelsey.” says the clerk at 7 11. “Haha. Funny. Thanks man.” I mumble while shuffling my pathetic self to the soda section. (I have now switched to blueberry juice as suggested by a physician.

Life Is A Highway

I’ve decided my own life is comprised of ruts. Yes, like ruts you find in a street: the annoying kind that pull your car one way then the other, leaving your tires stuck between them.

Out of rut #1: “Yes! I’m out. The possibilities are endless, I’m myself again, I’m happy.”

Into rut #2: “This is better. This will satisfy whatever inside of me is yearning for something more.”

Duration of rut #2: I’m stuck… in this direction, I will never be happy with my life.”

This repeats, over and over. I can clearly define each rut in my mind. Maybe, now that I recognize what’s going on, I can save myself the turmoil and find a cleanly paved street.

B.o.B.

“Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars…”

I go to bed with this song stuck in my head. I wake up and it’s still there. Gah!

Currently…

Stopped my thinking,

Quit my dreaming.

This is realism

without the fear.

4 Days

Things are changing

I’m not quite sure what the end result will be

But my hopes are high

Us

Three months of my life.

I wouldn’t give back a single day.

Here’s to us.

A New Kind of Sleep

Sleep comes in waves, breaking the night into modest pieces.

These pieces are filled with the drone of late night cartoons and the flash of your television.

Blankets entangle our legs making the bed a sea of soft warmth.

A rush of air, your yawn, brushes my neck accompanied with a whisper.

“Sweet dreams.” you murmur, sliding down onto my pillow.

“You too.” I sigh, gazing intently at the television.

Eventually sleep crashes into me, coaxing my head to lie next to yours.

In and out of consciousness we drift, tossing and turning.

I wake to  your touch, an arm reaching for me.

Unaware, you pull me close into a soft embrace.

Acceding to your form I relax in your amiable arms.

“I love you.” I mutter, allowing the night to pull me away with you.

Personal Pharmacy

-“What time is it?”

-“I dunno, 9:00 AM?”

*quickly rummages through purse, withdrawing a variety of pill bottles*

-“Man… what’s with all the meds?”

*Gulps four pills down with a swig of water*

-“Let me explain what they AREN’T for…”

Dangerous Routine

On a nightly basis I stare at my laptop screen for at least an hour in the dark.

With my eyes straining and stomach growling I jump up and out of my chair, eager to get a snack.

Now, this situation would be flawless if:

1. I’m not  blind from overexposure to a glowing rectangular screen
2. My floor isn’tt wood
3. I’m not wearing socks

The combination of these three variables results in me falling on my ass in the pitch black dark. While attempting to stand back up, my unadjusted eyes see nothing, allowing me to walk into various hard furniture, leaving bruises on my shins.

Now excuse me while I satisfy my munchies…

Testimony

While attempting to read a blog written by a girl my age, I was hardly able to finish scanning through her entries.

Stumbling upon frightening excuses of her “writing,” I found the need to explain the differences between the following:

1. Someone who attempts to write, considering their thoughts to be important while presented terribly
2. A writer who organizes their thoughts into understandable, relevant, and distinguished pieces of writing

Now I’m not saying I fit into either of these categories. I am neither a perfect writer, nor determined to be one. What frustrates me is the way this particular girl flaunts herself as a “Writer” while she presents atrocious examples of her prose.

Note, in the following link, her:

1. Assortment of misspelled words
2. Lack of text organization (Such as paragraphs, lyrics, ect.)
3. Inability to consistently construct full sentences
4. Misuse, of; “punctuation”
5. Drivels that, after fully read, do not have a thesis of any kind.

Again, I am, in no way, trying to prove that I am a great writer. There is no one correct way to compose words; everyone has a right to compose freely without judgement.

My point is that this particular girl, among many others, displays the incorrect way to create written art. This would not be a problem if she did not advertise her “deserved” title of “Writer.”

Thank you, Lexi, for producing the topic for this blog post.

All credit to you, “Writer”: http://mirthandmourning.blogspot.com/