If you ain't happy, honey,

Book Vending Machine

Lookin’ good at 6AM, Miri.

Jack Kerouac.

Neil Gaiman as a teenager.

I am filled with woe because:

• HE WAS/IS SO CUTE AND WELL READ AND BRILLIANT AND WHIMSICAL I DONT EVEN KNOW HOW A PERSON CAN BE TRULY WHIMSICAL BUT IDK
• I will never be as good a writer as Neil Gaiman.
• I am 30 years his junior, so I will never be with Gaiman to seduce&leech his brilliance away from him.
• I am not Amander Palmer (of Dresden Doll fame) so I am not awesome enough to be dating NG at the present time.

Reason #5902409 that I was born 20 years too late

-goes into corner of teenage melodrama to quietly weep-

G.K Chesterton

Nirvana - Lake of Fire

One of my favorite Nirvana songs.

Jorge Luis Borges

Sometimes you have to push.

Push for that happiness. Depression is easier. Depression and inaction are good friends. Sarcasm, self-deprecation, more tools to let the sadness consume you. You don’t really notice the horror that’s happening at first. The misery and the sarcasm are sedatives, they help deaden the mind.

That’s when all it takes is one small thing.

One small thing, coming from the exterior, that strange and constant and rippling and disgusting and wonderful plane called reality, pushes you when you’re not ready. And you gasp. And you yell. And you weep. Weep for the sand strewn all over your feet while you hold onto the broken hourglass.

And (minding the broken glass), you step forward.

You move on.

Move on to more pain, more cruelty, more disappointment that exterior hits at you. You can’t change the turning of the leaves from green to brown.

But you can protect the spring inside.

Fight for the summer of your life.

So you resist the deadening of the mind, the easy temptation. And you strive for the continual awakening, which is harder with the inescapable memories of let down and insults. Vulnerability left undetected and overlooked. Paths of conversation never taken, with the familiar “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?” ringing in your ear.

But tonight feels different. Instead of a brain slushed by image oversaturation, your heart feels especially raw tonight. It’s the poignant, passionate rawness that makes you learn the guitar. Makes you cut your own hair. Makes you paint whatever you’re feeling. You’re searching for that happiness, but with a rawness that wakes you up each time with a timid smile and itching hands.

You want to push against a current.

You stagger up the hill without a flicker of self-gratifying loneliness, and instead you slowly connect dots you’ll appreciate later.

You put down the hourglass, and pick up the pen.

Anne Frank would have been 80 years old today.