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Oops, haven’t been on tumblr for 2 months..

I probably got tired of it. Like everything else. I’m feel like I’m just getting over everything. I feel like I’m fucking thirty.

I’ve stopped smoking pot. And not consciously either. I didn’t go “This is bad for me, I should quit.” It just would never occur to me these days to do it. It’s probably a good thing, but it doesn’t seem to feel like it for some reason.

I have basically no interest in men. I mean like, I’ve probably been borderline obsessed with some guy, if only to keep me entertained, since I was.. what, thirteen? I have had at least seven years of always having some boy on my mind. I’ve probably trained myself to be constantly thinking about men, so even now I often feel this pulling to think about someone, even though there’s no one there. It’s… uncomfortable.

I don’t party as hard, or as often. I’m actually really fucking lame. Most days it comes down to: well I could spend at least $50 to go out, have an alright time, feel gross tomorrow OR I could stay home with my PS3. I’d like to think I’m getting more comfortable with myself, enjoying my time alone, but mostly it just feels like.. I just don’t give a fuck.

I’m not sure what exactly is responsible for my complete lack of interest in anything or anyone (besides myself) but this better just be a phase. I’m too young for this shit.

(PS, for anyone who cares, I’ll probably post more often.)

My reoccurring dream since forever lol

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.] 0 plays

Roomates out: sing this as loud as possible.

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.” —Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar