I was sitting here, in the dining room, this morning reading my e-mail, smiling, and wondering what it is about me that comes across as so bitchy. A friend of mine the other day had said that it, meaning me, was so sad; I was a happy upbeat person but I try to hide it. Maybe that makes me bitchy, or maybe I really am a bitch and I don't want to admit it to myself. Either way, many a people believe that I am bitchy, or scary, when they don't take the time to get to know me.
I'm not very funny. Almost all of my humor is bitter, sexual or childish, neither thought provoking nor timeless. I insult well though. It has been said that it is very hard to think of a comeback to many of my insults. That should count for something, shouldn't it?
I'm listening to that song "My Sharona" by not even God knows who; I've come to realize that I don't even like the song, but still I listen. I find it funny that I cannot recall who does the song, I did, after all, watch a VH1 special or something on the people. I've also come to realize, along with my realization of not liking the song, that Sunday is the day when all of our radio stations run what I believe are PSA's (or P-something-something's, for I am not sure if they really are public service announcements) and after those are over, it's all eighties, all the time. Not that I don't like some eighties music, but we do have about three stations entirely devoted to eighties music. I don't see the need for every station to do it on Sunday. There are, of course, the stations that are the exceptions; the oldies, country, jazz and classical stations. Those are givens though, no surprise. Can you imagine the guy running the classical station sending out a memo stating that they are going to start to play eighties music on Sundays? I'd listen to the station all Sunday if they mixed the classical with the eighties music. Anyway I'm over the eighties music, I'm listening to country now, and the eighties music really only lasts half of the day anyway.
Has anyone ever read The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald? It's turning out to be pretty good, wordy, but good. It is written beautifully, I think. It's set in the 20's, and I have yet to figure out what it is really about. Now, having said that, I read the back of the book and have the gist of it. A love story.
On a side note, straying far from any topic which might have been, but has become nonexistent at this point, I would like to say that I fear my blue coffee cup is leaking. It could just be that the ice water and the extreme (but not really so much) amounts of dust have caused quite a bit more condensation then I had counted on at twelve-thirty this morning in our low-fifty degree weather. I don't know.
Which by the way, speaking of the weather, has been wonderful. Each day the weather reports say we could get up to seventy-five, and then our high turns out to be fifty-six, or something similar, close to, around about that, whatever. The sky is clear, there is a light wind, and it rains most nights. Actually it drizzles, to be more true to fact. My mother curses and wishes it would get warmer (I almost wrote "more warmer" there, in case you were wondering). I on the other hand open all of the windows and doors. Cold is good, not that I don't love warmth, mind you.
I once wrote a story, getting off of the topic of weather, for a creative writing course I was taking. I say once, because it is the only story that I have ever written. The story could be about anything, as long as it was 1,500 words minimum. I wrote some odd story about a girl who lied about herself, for the hell of it, and discovered the lie was true. It is sort of a little fantasy story of mine. I wish it were about me, but alas, that would be too, I want to say perfect, but that wouldn't sound right, so we will leave it as a fill in the blank kind of thing. Maybe I'll share it sometime, but not today, for sake of your sanity.
Before I go, as I must, let us touch once more on music. I have, over my sixteen something years, developed some odd dislike for the Beatles. It has been said that they were the "creators of rock". Or so I was informed by my Rock & Roll history teacher, but let me just say: Oh, My, God, this world was in a sad state of affairs if the Beatles were provocative rock. I feel though that I should like them, because they were so loved. But eh, should I really? Should I sink into that state of mind? I say no, like what I will, for in all reality, the Beatles get me no more energized then kitty litter.
Thoughts of the day (possibly to be touched on next time): What is the meaning of emotional suicide? Life is like a kaleidoscope, with every tiny turn, or subtle movement, the picture changes.
Well, now that I have fallen from my state of Godliness, and filled you all with pieces of myself, my life, and thoughts, I will hang up the phone, as it is sometimes said, and cease this inane rambling, for now. Mind you I say that, knowing that all who read this were hanging on my every word. You all have been taken over by some unexplainable feeling, urging you to lighten your step, and speak as though you know tomorrow will never come. And if you have not gotten this feeling, maybe next time.
Josephine (me) is a 16 year old, bisexual, high school junior living in western Washington. I am an obsessive, honest, blunt, and at times crazy, chick who enjoys chaos, and anything that seems a challenge. Reading, writing, music and feedback are all good stuff so e-mail me at EmbezzledEmotion@aol.com.