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just because i don't say anything doesn't mean i don't like you
and besides
you're probably holding hands
with some skinny pretty girl
that likes to talk about bands
and all i wanna do
is ride bikes with you
and stay up late
and watch cartoons

She tells me about how happy/unhappy she can be and, in turn, I share my echoed feelings

I wanted to write about how wonderful it is speaking to Sophie. Being the masochist I am, I should have felt hurt or something else stupid when she went on about how much Kathryn loves Richard, about their gratuitous public displays of affection and promises of marriage. Sophie even went and told me about how Kathryn goes on about never ever wanting to wish for anyone else. You know, before then I'd been working on this wonderful poem/piece of writing about those girls who are too good and just should never have sex. Kathryn is fifteen, she seems to be so perfect and, although she's lived much longer than I ever will, it just seems such a shame, such a waste for her to be tainted like that. I know society's stigma about virginity is irrational and this, albeit unintentionally, implies that I assume I am somehow more suitable for her, but (back in my moments of unfettered teenage angst) I couldn't help feeling she is above us all and no one deserves her. It seems to me that there are just some people who aren't ready for sex. Or maybe I just have a virgin fetish.

But I couldn't feel hurt or even remotely upset, because, right then, it just felt so good to be talking to Sophie - she definitely has something undeniably charming about her. The way that she has such obvious imperfections only makes her more wonderful. It's the innocent way she thinks that is so special. And I find the most tedious minutiae of her life utterly fascinating. And, with those recurring masochistic tendencies, I thought she might enjoy speaking to me too, might even like me. I think I really cared for her, even though I knew she never could for me...

I spent my time thinking about how wonderful life is. I told her everything - even things that nearly mattered. It just meant so much letting her know how great a feeling it is to have the sun warm your back through a black t-shirt.

Are there such things as half measures? Is the next best thing acceptable when you're not even sure where the other half of your soul is? And is it so wrong to want someone who you know isn't the one?


So we exchanged daily emails but, all the time, I had no idea what she felt. And when, after outrageous flirting and such, she gave me something to hang onto, a chance to convince myself I was wanted, I duly set myself up for agony again. We only spoke of mundanity and later on, she seemed reluctant to open up but hell, she knew how to quote top, reply bottom. Why am I so fucking bad at reading people's emotions? After so many times of being let down, why do I still build people up only for them to let me tumble right down again? And why do I always seem to care for the ones who get away a hundred times more than anyone else ever cared for their heartbreakers? I should learn to answer these questions for myself.

Nevertheless, I made something out of nothing and, only after the nothing happened, did I realise how foolish I had been. But, by then, it was too late. I'd already made her question what she was doing and all but convinced myself to the point that I could get hurt. I stupidly fucked something up out of desperation, inexperience and greed. And at the end of it all, before I had a chance to look back from far enough away, I almost wanted to say things that pretend to have meaning. Little sentences that hint at depth and poignant feeling but really, are just stupid things I say to try and pretend I feel things that anyone cares about, that even remotely compare. To convince myself I'm not just a foolish kid who still hasn't learned to control his childish emotions. I almost think them automatically like the young lovers who are obliged to feel love. "I would have preferred anyone but her to do this to me".

Every day I become increasingly convinced that if I were attractive then I might actually find that some girls would like me. But, duh.


And the thing is, Sophie is such a small part of the tumultuous concoction of emotions and half-forgotten semi-broken relationships I'm trying to sort out in my mind. Of considerations about life and how it pans out. God, the last few days have been full of weird feelings. I actually (very nearly) told someone how I really felt for perhaps the first time ever. And then I went off sulking because I was told about something which made me certain that everything contrives to make my life suck as much as possible.

Another thing is I remembered how I had desperately wanted to get away from school so I get back to the place where I had friends. So I too could enjoy myself and bask in the revisited memories of those fun times with friends. So I could be part of the new memories. Only, now I'm back, I realise I don't have anyone to have those fun times with.

I keep seeing the same old fucking story of my life play on repeat over and over and over again.

I always liked the name Sophie.


And now I reluctantly admit it all and post this entry even though I want to forget I still go back to thinking these things.

    mood: sad sad
    choon: The Moldy Peaches - Nothing Came Out