ramblings.

I don't know how I ever came to acquire this weird fascination with writing my thoughts and feelings down and having other people read them. I don't consider myself terribly passive and enjoy hearty confrontations about my feelings and why I feel them. I do consider myself very well-adjusted: I take a moment to ponder why I feel the way I do, I can generally rationalize my emotions, and I don't second-guess them. I might be outrageously angry, too much so for the situation, but they're my feelings. I ride it out, accept I felt that way, then move on.

I guess I used to be incredibly sad. A lot and all the time. It wasn't medicate-me depression, but your usual teenage-angst. (worrying about friends and boys and clothes and make-up and listening to the right music) I used to be incredibly sad and nobody knew, or, if they did, nobody cared. So, I started speaking my mind and working out my feelings.

Now, I find myself happy more times then sad. Laid-back more times than angry. Forgiving more than full of hate.

Maybe this stems from my hopeless desire to be fascinating. I have carrot-orange hair, a short, squat stature; I wear glasses have acne on my chin. I wholly (below) average. But everything I feel inside, everything I think, is so interesting. To me. And I want other people to think that.

Do we ever get over our desire to be liked by someone? Is the need for approval societal conditioning brought on by the reward/punishment system? Or are is it ingrained in us to to prove ourselves worthy so we become the leader, get the best slice of meat, the best furs and the prettiest mate?

I'm newly turned 21 and I feel plagued with thoughts of an older soul. Or maybes its just my generation. Currently, I obsess about romance most likely due in part to the lack of it in my life. I question the point of relationships, how they work for people, the complex workings of them, the idea of being beholden to another. Love. That word, that feeling, that idea. Even now, I wrinkle my nose. And yet...I read page after page of trashy romance novels. I cry like a blubbering fool every single time I watch The Notebook. Why? Because he loved her. And she couldn't remember. And it tore him up inside. Sometimes, when I go ahead and allow myself to turn fictional characters into human beings, I think he would've preferred if she had died before she forgot him and their love. Or, left him but stayed cognizant. As if, maybe, the fact she couldn't remember meant it didn't exist for her and her loving him was just as important as his love for her.

Does that kind of love exist, honestly? Is Hollywood setting us up for the biggest disappointment?