Tolerance, Hurt, and Plain Randomness

I have no idea what I'm doing writing something perfectly random in this blog. I'm supposed to be writing something else but I just couldn't. I want to write this instead but I still couldn't bring myself to express the words that this hyperventilating heart wants to say. As much as I want to write about a multitude of things, I am the most problematic when it comes to organizing my thoughts. If only my mind were a room, you'd find eggs half-cracked and flying, and dancing light bulbs that sing at the same time. I am weird and I want to write about this weirdness' consequences but it's just too hard.

My heart is, let's just say, aching. And that's an understatement. Thank you, weird me.
I know this has something to do with my hamartia: feelings. As confusing as it sounds I did read that thing again. I know! I think I might just have become a masochist over the summer. Yes, I read it over and over again even though it never stopped hurting me, and even though it always brought me to tears at first because of bitterness, but eventually because I knew I could never do anything to bring back what was lost. It was my fault. It was because I haven't learned to put a muzzle on my mouth and thumbs (when I text, of course). And I read it when I feel like it because I know it spoke the truth. That it truly was my fault. I thought I'd get over it, but somehow something's holding me back, taunting me.

Hello, reader. I know you have no idea what I'm rambling about, and I do not expect you to understand, much less finish reading this. But girls like me just have to write, you know. I realized, I've been short of friends I could truly trust this summer, being a loner at home, and this blog is the closest I could get to having my best friend beside me. And I just realized, every single time I read a novel, I find myself conforming to some of the protagonist's unusual habits and thinking patterns. I'm currently reading The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank, and here I am, writing on this blog that Anne would have called Kitty to match the diary she had kept for years.


Remember how I said I have problems organizing my thoughts? Yeah, well, I actually started writing this without knowing how to end it. Now that I want to close this post ASAP (because I'm getting tired), I have no idea how to do it. See, that's my weirdness and randomness working, my friends. Wait, wasn't I just talking about how hurt I am? Haha. Gah, I think I have a bipolar disorder. :/ But I'm hoping this would be a good sign - that I really couldn't hold on to bitterness for too long.

*insert a paragraph to close this post*

K, awkward abrupt goodbye here. Until my next much more decent post. :)