the hot dog fold, the hamburger flip

I am living the sort of life right now that seems to be leaving me. How can people still eat hotdogs in computer labs? While I am dying inside. Dying. All arrows point to me. I can't even look at it. I can't even write its name.

I think the whole point, here, is that I am a very different person than I was over the summer. The things that "made me happy" (and I put this in quotes because, well, they didn't) are the things that anger me now in other people. A friend and I discussed this on the lawn above the basement I'm in now: how insecure we are, how we hated when other people spoke against us because we cared too much. We're now uncomfortable in social situations because we think of everything other people are saying and not saying. "If we're going to write," she says, "we're going to have to endure this. We're always putting ourselves out there for other people to criticize or blame." Write. Is this even what I'm supposed to be doing? I'm good at art, not writing. I'm good at making little things, at decorating walls. I'm not good at anything.

"I'm more sorry for the things I did not do than for the things I did," is some precious quote from some precious movie. I should have.