I am tired and bothered. For now, I will resist the urge to complain and settle for conveying my discontent through metaphor. Let's see. This night shudders with wasted potential; mourning the still body of possibilities, the limitless spectrum of routes that a Friday night in the (supposed) greatest city on earth--a certain big apple--can pave. How was that? Too desperate?
Instead of hiding one's thoughts in a journal and imagining that someday it will be discovered as an invaluable article of not only the past but of a distinct character, who beyond this small proof will be forgotten, why not broadcast one's thoughts on the internet and consider the more likely, but no less absurd, possibility that someone will take notice now and actually (insert profound word for 'give a shit' here).
Let's lay all the cards on the table: My name is Friday. I am an eighteen your old living in Manhattan, if you can can call it living. How else to phrase it though. Sulking? Stewing? Waiting? There we are. I am and eighteen your old boy waiting in Manhattan. I have been requesting a sign from God. Nothing over the top. Just a little hint suggesting where exactly I should steer my life. Should I go to university in Paris (granted that I am even accepted)? Should I stay in this booger of a city and roll the die again, praying that this time they land in my favor. Should I go back home to my family who love me undeniably, who will do anything for me except perhaps truly understand me. Jesus. That last part sounded very ... juvenile. Why doesn't anyone understand me? It's a valid question though. The two people who understand me are off having true college experiences: doing the dorm thing, stressing about classes, eating crap food and being upstanding young people. I could do that. I want to do that. Now I understand that I can't be both: a student and an adult. I have tried to juggle school and work, responsibility and passion, and ended up tossing it all into a sloppy pile. Totally botched it. I knew that when I came here that it would be flawed. But for some odd reason no one bothered to mention how hard it is to meet people here, especially when you're going to a commuter school where everyone is already cemented into their social circles, and you are not particularly outgoing, and are not of age to go out for drinks or to decent clubs (even if that interested you), and don't smoke weed or have a history social conformity. Besides the problematic lack of gay, I would like to live in a Jane Austen setting. I would settle for a residence along the lines of Ms. Bate's house; something modest. Occasionally I would attend a party some place more ... snazzy, like Mr. Darcy's. Everyday I could enjoy tea, often with company. I would be friendly with everyone in town and could keep a garden and hang my laundry out to dry. A far cry from my roommates droll hip hop in the background. She is having a get together. Is it entirely cowardly that I don't join them, that my alternative is to hide in my "room" and do this. Or in a backwards way is it brave; to recognize that I am not part of this crowd and not give in to what I deem stupid conduct. To not conform. Am I too stubborn? Am I just a bore?
Man, it feels good to write, even if I'm embarrassing myself by doing it on the internet. But surely some of you can empathize. Although my feelings often run contrary to the fact, I know that I am not the only lonely person in the world.
D'accord. De rien.
Friday
Instead of hiding one's thoughts in a journal and imagining that someday it will be discovered as an invaluable article of not only the past but of a distinct character, who beyond this small proof will be forgotten, why not broadcast one's thoughts on the internet and consider the more likely, but no less absurd, possibility that someone will take notice now and actually (insert profound word for 'give a shit' here).
Let's lay all the cards on the table: My name is Friday. I am an eighteen your old living in Manhattan, if you can can call it living. How else to phrase it though. Sulking? Stewing? Waiting? There we are. I am and eighteen your old boy waiting in Manhattan. I have been requesting a sign from God. Nothing over the top. Just a little hint suggesting where exactly I should steer my life. Should I go to university in Paris (granted that I am even accepted)? Should I stay in this booger of a city and roll the die again, praying that this time they land in my favor. Should I go back home to my family who love me undeniably, who will do anything for me except perhaps truly understand me. Jesus. That last part sounded very ... juvenile. Why doesn't anyone understand me? It's a valid question though. The two people who understand me are off having true college experiences: doing the dorm thing, stressing about classes, eating crap food and being upstanding young people. I could do that. I want to do that. Now I understand that I can't be both: a student and an adult. I have tried to juggle school and work, responsibility and passion, and ended up tossing it all into a sloppy pile. Totally botched it. I knew that when I came here that it would be flawed. But for some odd reason no one bothered to mention how hard it is to meet people here, especially when you're going to a commuter school where everyone is already cemented into their social circles, and you are not particularly outgoing, and are not of age to go out for drinks or to decent clubs (even if that interested you), and don't smoke weed or have a history social conformity. Besides the problematic lack of gay, I would like to live in a Jane Austen setting. I would settle for a residence along the lines of Ms. Bate's house; something modest. Occasionally I would attend a party some place more ... snazzy, like Mr. Darcy's. Everyday I could enjoy tea, often with company. I would be friendly with everyone in town and could keep a garden and hang my laundry out to dry. A far cry from my roommates droll hip hop in the background. She is having a get together. Is it entirely cowardly that I don't join them, that my alternative is to hide in my "room" and do this. Or in a backwards way is it brave; to recognize that I am not part of this crowd and not give in to what I deem stupid conduct. To not conform. Am I too stubborn? Am I just a bore?
Man, it feels good to write, even if I'm embarrassing myself by doing it on the internet. But surely some of you can empathize. Although my feelings often run contrary to the fact, I know that I am not the only lonely person in the world.
D'accord. De rien.
Friday
