September 30, 2010
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Starr struck
I'm a very angry person. I write when I'm angry. I feel angry when my smart, intelligent friends go out for a burger at McDonalds. I'm annoyed when I meet people who think they're above socializing and small talk. I get angry when my hair refuses to do what it's told. I fall asleep to the sound of people being angry. I'm an environmentalist because I'm angry.
Lately I've been trying not to be mad at Starr. I text the boy and sometimes ask him to hang, but he rarely reciprocates the initiative, and I get angry because I just knowwe'd be right together, so in my head I blame him for not trying, for being afraid, and that's easier than admitting maybe I wasn't engaging or pretty enough, or maybe he's just not interested.
I should get smart and recognize a lost cause. But when I discover a new band I want to share it with him. When the day's been too long it's him I want to wind down the evening with. When the September sun makes an appearance I want us to go out in skirts and shorts and pretend that summer days aren't over. I'll watch him pore silently over books for an upcoming exam while I fill the house with the smell of wafting cookies (I don't actually know how to make anything else).
Maybe I'd be less angry if I didn't have all these dreams. I'm not young enugh, after all, to know how to hope without fear. I should get smart and recognize a lost cause, but the fact that I'm angry at all means that there still exists a dream to disappoint. I'd rather be angry and know there's still something left to burn.
