This isn't me

This isn't who I am.

Sometimes, life is just easier as a robot. Not better. Just easier.

I read some poems I'd written in the last couple months. They're not good, per se. There are a few lines in each one that I like. It makes me wish I was disciplined enough to turn the words into something... better.

I'm great. I'll see you tomorrow. Don't worry, I wasn't trying to convince you.

I just watched Dan in Real Life again. I saw it when it first came out. Is that just how it works? You see something you want and you just get it? Little to no work at all? If that's so, I'm quitting.

No, I'm not. No matter who I am, I don't want to be a person who has life happen to them. I don't want life to be just a thing I go through. I want to make the most of it. I suppose I don't really need to know what that best is ahead of time, do I.

Fine, I won't be a stupid robot.

The neighbors upstairs are either a) serenading their son or b) listening to Paul Baribeau. I can't tell because that's how bad the singing is . And I don't know Paul Baribeau's music well enough. Regardless, the strain in the voice makes him (the neighbor or Paul Baribeau) sound sincere. Deliciously terrible. Like thinking about the taste of the sprinkles in your ice cream.

I'm putting my fingers in my ears and going to the living room.

-Theresa