99.9% of the time, I love not making sense. 99.9% of the time, I absolutely adore being the quirky individual, the Shakespeare nerd with the fiery passion, the loud one, the outrageous one, the life of the party.
But, there's that .01% of the time. Sometimes I wish that, for once in my life, I would just make sense to someone other than myself. I mean, come on. How pitiful of a sentence is that? Don't answer that.
For once, I'd love to endlessly muse about make-up or Twilight or who's cute without yearning instead for intense conversations about wanderlust, metaphysical connections, Napoleon Bonaparte, and, well, kind of the meaning of life. I want someone who will change tracks with me when I can't finish a word because another sentence spills out because there is so much - so much to do! So much to say! I want it to make sense to someone: the pure uninhibited joy of swinging on a playground, the unbridled beauty of a photograph in black and white, the adrenilane rush. I want someone to understand why I dream about flying.
I read Milton in my spare time. I'm taking two APs and four Honors my junior year. I have an IQ off the chart, have read every classic you can throw at me, and truly enjoy chemistry, algebra, and literature. But I can't read an analog clock, I don't know how to tie my shoes right, and sometimes I have to ask what month it is.
Is there another fiesty, short firecracker who's 2/3 quirk and 1/3 jerk? I am. I want to be the girl who no one can look at without wondering what it is that makes her so happy all the time; the girl who can always brighten your day, even when she can't brighten her own. Unfortunately, I'm a jerk most of the time.
An aberration? I think so.
I'm in a constant losing battle with gravity. I run into walls for attention. I'm here to save the world from making sense, and I do a good job. I sing Christmas carols in March, fabricate acronyms unabashadely, and love unconditionally. My favorite place is on top of my friend's car. I love to say "you had to be there," but in reality, I make so little sense, being there rarely helps even remotely. I can find sentimental value in a rubber band if it means I don't have to throw it away. I love Legos and Play Doh. I'd rather have a red Jeep Wrangler than get married. I leap before I look, am emotionally attached to my iPod, and still wear a mood ring that I got in fourth grade. I think out loud. To me, red says "go," not "stop." I make references to Greek mythology. I don’t ever get cold. Ever. But my parents make me lug around a coat so people don't report them to social services. I find this humorous. Until it happens.
To me, everything is super. Superbad. Superawesome. Superhot. Supercold. Superyummy.
I don't know.
And I want someone else to admit that they don't know, either.
Well...
At least I make sense to myself. Sometimes.
But, there's that .01% of the time. Sometimes I wish that, for once in my life, I would just make sense to someone other than myself. I mean, come on. How pitiful of a sentence is that? Don't answer that.
For once, I'd love to endlessly muse about make-up or Twilight or who's cute without yearning instead for intense conversations about wanderlust, metaphysical connections, Napoleon Bonaparte, and, well, kind of the meaning of life. I want someone who will change tracks with me when I can't finish a word because another sentence spills out because there is so much - so much to do! So much to say! I want it to make sense to someone: the pure uninhibited joy of swinging on a playground, the unbridled beauty of a photograph in black and white, the adrenilane rush. I want someone to understand why I dream about flying.
I read Milton in my spare time. I'm taking two APs and four Honors my junior year. I have an IQ off the chart, have read every classic you can throw at me, and truly enjoy chemistry, algebra, and literature. But I can't read an analog clock, I don't know how to tie my shoes right, and sometimes I have to ask what month it is.
Is there another fiesty, short firecracker who's 2/3 quirk and 1/3 jerk? I am. I want to be the girl who no one can look at without wondering what it is that makes her so happy all the time; the girl who can always brighten your day, even when she can't brighten her own. Unfortunately, I'm a jerk most of the time.
An aberration? I think so.
I'm in a constant losing battle with gravity. I run into walls for attention. I'm here to save the world from making sense, and I do a good job. I sing Christmas carols in March, fabricate acronyms unabashadely, and love unconditionally. My favorite place is on top of my friend's car. I love to say "you had to be there," but in reality, I make so little sense, being there rarely helps even remotely. I can find sentimental value in a rubber band if it means I don't have to throw it away. I love Legos and Play Doh. I'd rather have a red Jeep Wrangler than get married. I leap before I look, am emotionally attached to my iPod, and still wear a mood ring that I got in fourth grade. I think out loud. To me, red says "go," not "stop." I make references to Greek mythology. I don’t ever get cold. Ever. But my parents make me lug around a coat so people don't report them to social services. I find this humorous. Until it happens.
To me, everything is super. Superbad. Superawesome. Superhot. Supercold. Superyummy.
I don't know.
And I want someone else to admit that they don't know, either.
Well...
At least I make sense to myself. Sometimes.
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