I have spent the majority of my day terribly irritated with anything, everything and everyone. I don't want to be but I can't help it. It's just how I've been today.

I think I need to give Tyler Durden a call and see if he wants to bring Fight Club back.

...speaking of Chuck Palahniuk, I was reminded of one of my favourite quotes of his today.

"The idea that I can't share my problems with other people

makes me not give a shit about their problems."

It's totally true too. I've never really minded listening to people talk or complain or over-share but I'm finding it increasingly harder everyday to give a fuck about other people's problems. Why can't everyone just do what I do and carry a journal around? Writing instead of speaking has done me some good and I really think it could help a lot of other people. I can hear them now though, "Writing doesn't work for me" or "I can't write like you Stephanie".

WELL FUCK. I'm not saying write a novel! Just fucking put a pen to paper and get your shit out that way instead of putting me in a position that I don't fit into well right now.

...

I know I sound like a bitch right now but that's only because I'm being a bitch right now. I'm sure in a few days (or maybe even hours) I won't mind listening to people again but right now I really just don't want to hear it.

Get a fucking journal.

Get a fucking pen.

Write.

/rant.

MY MIND IS EVERYWHERE RIGHT NOW. I was thinking about hair and then I was thinking about something else but then I realized I'm thinking WAY TOO FAST. Wayyyy too fucking fast.

Like, shit.
FUCK someone brought up Batman and now I can't help but think about Batman and teeth and Alfred and cars SIMULTANEOUSLY. My fingers are seriously struggling to get this all out. My brain is just on light speed right now.


This shit is intense! I need to go run or something!

This is a big fuck you to Non-Fiction.

fuck you, Non-Fiction.

And now I will explain:

I am a socialized humanoid. I exist because social constructs allow me to; they tell me how to act, how to think, how to be, and (most importantly) what to expect. I can make friends by adhering to social norms like shaking hands and answering the question "how are you?" with "okay". I can date a boy and know that, at some point, he's probably going to expect something more physical from me because my physical attributes and how I use them are way more important to our relationship than my personality, despite what he says. I can change my clothes according to where I'm going, whether it be work or class or a party.

What I can't do though is give Non-Fiction what it wants and that is because it is willing to take so much that I have nothing to give it. What if I disappoint it? What if I don't do it justice? What if my non-fiction- my reality- is completely uninteresting and unimportant to Non-Fiction? This is not my problem though. This is Non-Fiction's problem.

Non-Fiction is synonymous with the word "whatever".

Waiting passively, as though it is willing to accept whatever I have to offer, Non-Fiction waits for me to fail. It leaves so many options open for me, not because it wants to hear everything, but because it doesn't really care. Like the half-assed ear of an acquaintance, Non-Fiction is only pretending to listen to everything I have to say, nodding and laughing at seemingly appropriate times. But when I ask for it's opinion, Non-Fiction will simply shrug it's shoulders and tell me to ask someone else. Non-Fiction and I will never be best friends at this rate.

Like a dog chasing its tail though, I am not yet ready to give up on Non-Fiction. Instead, I have a proposal to make. Here I am, bending on one of my literary knees and holding Pandora's Box in my hand, waiting to open it. All I need is an answer to the one question everyone has been scared to ask: What do you want from me, Non-Fiction? When I get the answer, I will be ready and willing to give Non-Fiction what it wants and expects from me. Until that day though, I will continue to pine over Non-Fiction, vacillating between love and hate all while trying incessantly to please the insatiable nature it has adopted.