Mission Statement

My mission statement: why people suck and so will I.. Current mood: understimulated

I've come to a realization. I daresay it's an epiphany-in-the-making.

When I drive, I think too much. It's just one of those things. And I drive a LOT. It sort of dawned on me the way things are and why I always seem to be outside the arena.

I'm awesome. No. Seriously. Just keep reading. I am extremely stubborn, I know exactly who I am and what I want and what I will or will not do. I like to think, and learn, and debate. I'm passionate and opinionated. I don't base my entire personal value on this shell I was born with. And frankly, I just haven't given a good goddamn about people or what they think.

That's why I can "fit in"--the rules aren't that difficult. But I've always chosen not to. The result of such choices are I'm seen as a goofy little sister or a wacky outspoken friend.

But when you get to the point where you imagine how much more you'd be appreciated if something tragic were to happen to you, you know you need to make a change. The people I find most fascinating don't prefer to be around me--I hate to even think it, but even they want the ditzy, frilly, tiny little pigmies that prefer fashion magazines to Dickens, or Sex and the City to 300. It's heartbreaking, but you can't argue with observation.

Therefore, I'm going more mainstream. I'm going to see how long I can last being a part of regular women. It should be fun. I get to think of nothing but myself and how my hair looks (I mean, who wouldn't worry after two hours of grooming!?), I'll eat raw salad and try to look cute while breaking a sweat at the gym, and oh! the fun contraptions put in place to make me look better. I can't wait. I'll giggle and pretend I don't know what you're talking about, or that the movie's too violent or the argument too complicated. My every waking moment will be spent trying to trap a man into marriage because, after all, that's what will finally validate me as a person.

.............annnnnnnnnnnnnd I give up.