I’m still awake. Katie came over around eleven or eleven thirty, I really wasn’t sure of what time it was. She found me across the street and a house or two down standing with a glass of pomegranate juice on the sidewalk in front of a house that wasn’t mine. At eleven thirty or so at night. I can’t stand bizarre people who do bizarre things. Why do people stand me? Maybe my bizarreness is just benign. Someone once told me I was comfortable to be around because I’m confident. Strange, but confident about it.

Katie and me sat/laid/reclined/whatever in the dark in the green room. We had a conversation. We talked about things that pained me in a way that even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could find the proper way to express it to Katie or anyone. We talked about the far far past a handful of years ago and this brought back a warm nostalgia and a dark remembrance of a failure I didn’t even know I had at the time, and wouldn’t deem it a failure until much later, and even now couldn’t tell you exactly what I failed at or why. The best part of our conversation was me reassuring her… I don’t know if I get reassured by anyone. Ever. I don’t worry about a lot of things, but sometime I think I’d like someone to tell me “It’ll be ok, don’t worry about it, things will be fine, and they’ll go your way and you’ll be happy”. I don’t even really care if it’s a lie when they say it and everyone involved knows it’s a lie. I just want to hear it. I’m not butt deep in worry right now, and I’ve been worrying less and less every week. Certainly not worry free, but better. I think I reassure Katie about various things fairly frequently. I probably could more, but I don’t want to have her get used to me having to constantly reassure her. That’s unhealthy for anyone. Maybe it’s healthy that I’m not a frequent recipient of reassurance, how should I know? Makes me a bit more reliant on myself, right?

I read for about an hour after Katie left. I’ve been reading Chuck Palahniuk’s Invisible Monsters. So far, it’s great. Really good. Especially after that travesty called Waiting Period. The only thing good to come out of that read was the reassurance that I can get something published and find it in a Barnes and Noble someday. I’ve wrote better things before, in middle school. Palahniuk wrote Fight Club. It’s probably been the only thing I’ve ever been obsessed over sans Katie. The movie, not the book, by the way. Here is an excerpt from the book, and I don’t know why I chose it, I could pick any two paragraphs and it’d be a good pick:

“Now,” those Plumbago lips say, “You are going to tell me your story like you just did. Write it all down. Tell that story over and over. Tell me your sad-assed story all night.” That Brandy queen points a long bony finger at me.
“When you understand,” Brandy says, “that what you’re telling is just a story. It isn’t happening anymore. When you realize the story you’re telling is just words, when you can just crumble it up and throw your past in the trashcan,” Brandy says, “then we’ll figure out who you’re going to be.”