Damn I’m good. But maybe too good.

I’m starting to scare myself – I just realized recently – I’m a really good bullshitter. Sometimes? Stuff comes out of my mouth or appears on paper and I don’t even know where it came from.

There hasn’t been one interview I’ve been to, that I haven’t nailed.. (8) and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m good at selling myself, or because I’m a super good bullshitter. I feed the usual high school story about me being an IB candidate, triathlete, and SGA president on top of juggling a dedicated musician’s career and being involved in community service and work to catch their little sausage fingers that pry at leadership, ambition and dedication – but am I as perfect as I make myself out to be? No way. I’m proud that I pulled through without quitting anything, but – I f’ed up a whole lot.

There hasn’t been a SINGLE paper that I’ve written (even when it was half-assed 30 minutes before) that didn’t get atleast a B.. in fact most of them were A’s. First topics paper of the quarter with Tim (Hippo) Kane? I got one of the two A’s in the class. First paper written for hist125? I got one of the four A’s. Written essay portion of the SAT? 11/12 on the first try, 12/12 for the next two tries. Why? This is definitely because I’m a good bullshitter (and maybe because I listen a little in class ).

You want a detailed oral analysis of Juan Rulfo’s obscure Pedro Paramo, or an explanation of Gustav Klimt’s usage of shapes as a form of expressing gender divisions in The Kiss? Best believe I’ll beautifully deliver an A with a heaping pile of bulllshizzle.

In fact – everything above this sentence may have just been another extraction from my ass.

And THAT, creepy people reading my online diary, is why I am afraid of myself.

You’re a little late

I want to be surprised.

I find that with every year that goes by, my imagination and that of the world around me becomes smaller and more limited. I swear the word has lost just about every ounce of originality left.

I remember when I was a kid, my little cousins and I would make ‘clubhouses’ out of polka-dotted blankets, and my grandmother’s old floral print sheets that we held down with canned foods as weights. We’d pretend that we were hiding in caves of tibet, or we’d sleep in canopies that we hung on the stairs and pretend that we were on ships that were hiding from sea monsters – we even used to get mad at each other if one of us left the clubhouse without a jacket, since it was ‘too cold outside’ to leave without one. We’d do ridiculous things such as dig up giant holes in the backyard thinking we’d find a treasure chest, or sitting in the back of my dad’s volvo and pretending to shoot away velociraptors that were running towards the car, or close our eyes when we flew on the swings cus we thought it’d make us go faster.

When will I wake up?

I almost killed someone today.. and myself.

I drove down lee highway reading my pledge book for my next meeting, and I ran into a pick up truck infront of me.

We’re fine.

But I can’t help but think that if I was going any faster – I could have killed someone.

I could’ve killed someone.

I’m so stupid. I can’t think right now.