I don't understand why I'm not writing as much as I used to. I grew up having so much to say to the world. I guess you just get to a certain point of your life and realize that nothing you say or do will ever matter. That's what growing up is about, isn't it? Coming to terms with your insignificance and realizing that the cape you've been dragging around looks ridiculous.
It's been rough. Which I don't mind, what I do mind however is that I'm losing my sense of humor about it all. I'm having an odd case of incurable Senioritis in Sophomore year, which is apparently yet another widespread phenomenon that everybody somehow failed to mention in the college handbook. I've been eating nothing but junk food since January, and when I actually tried my hand at this whole grownupsy shopping for groceries and making myself a healthy meal deal, I ended up standing at the cash register looking down on a shopping cart filled almost exclusively with chocolate-based pseudo food. The only responsible choice I made was whole wheat bread, which was apparently a hard act to follow since there was nothing to spread on it.
It's been rough. Which I don't mind, what I do mind however is that I'm losing my sense of humor about it all. I'm having an odd case of incurable Senioritis in Sophomore year, which is apparently yet another widespread phenomenon that everybody somehow failed to mention in the college handbook. I've been eating nothing but junk food since January, and when I actually tried my hand at this whole grownupsy shopping for groceries and making myself a healthy meal deal, I ended up standing at the cash register looking down on a shopping cart filled almost exclusively with chocolate-based pseudo food. The only responsible choice I made was whole wheat bread, which was apparently a hard act to follow since there was nothing to spread on it.
The sad thing is that I don't even find this funny.
Another bit of news is that a while ago I took it upon myself to retreat into my bat cave and swore it on the old gods and the new that it'll take batman himself to get me back out again. The last time I made that decision I was 12, if I recall correctly, and it did take batman to get me back out, in the form of my dad, about 4 years later. During that interesting incubation period, I honed my hermit skills in the arts of dystopian literature and SciFi TV shows, became a self-sufficient misanthrope and emerged into the world a klutzy fumbling ball of oddments and eccentricities, with not a hint as to how humans work or how to interact with them, attracting the occasional lost soul with my formidable stash of geeky knowledge only to beat them off the threshold of my haunted house with a Nimbus 2000 when they confused me, which happened a lot.
If only it were that easy.
And so many years later, at the golden age of 21, I'm back there again. And I wouldn't trade it for the world. Well to be perfectly honest, I would trade it, only for a better world, not this one. This one has humans, and they're horrible horrible beings.
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