I've been abandoning books lately. I do not like this trend at all. In grammar school, I swore to be the type of person who always finished everything she started (is it proper to use third person there? Yeah?), especially books. I never imagined that I would experience such uncertainty at this stage of my human evolution (devolution?) and I am certainly just wandering about in a daze all the time. I have been trying to get through Albert Camus's "The Plague" and Anton Chekov's "Essential Plays", but I have been deterred by the memorization of the names and my constant reflection on the plots. I keep putting it down and it gets to the point of me losing interest in finishing these books altogether. What the hell. I suppose I haven't taken the time to sit down and read from cover to cover. I have no motivation.
I haven't been remembering my dreams lately, either. For the past year or two, I've been remembering less and less of my dreams. This is somewhat alarming because I used to remember 60% of my dreams when I was under the age of 21.
I suppose this blog has been spurred on by depression, menstruation, and a black fucking sink hole. I hate being so overdramatic, but being so pent up tends to be a driving force for an outlet. Srsly, at least I am not cutting anymore, but I still reflect on doing it because I am immature, so fucking what.
A list of people that have abandoned me: my mother, my childhood best friend, my lovers, and my casual friends.
My on-and-off long term boyfriend (we are off now) said that I had abandonment issues when I cried because he wanted to go get take out at another restaurant and come back for me later. He was right. I hated that about him, but I also loved it, too.
