Day Tripper

97.

The number of blog posts I've written,

Soon to be 98.

And somehow the number seems counterproductive,

Seems like it's just a measure by which my life is falling away.

97 is just a label for my procrastination.

My rants, and heartaches,

Feelings, and musings.

If you could call them that.

I think 97 just became my least favorite number.

The embodiment of my failures?

Or something worth it?

Is this blog worth the time I spend on it?

It this whole blogging-experiment just a catastrophe

From which I am now inseparable?

Where else can I go to spew my brains?

Nowhere.

That's where.

Truly, this blog is the only place in which I can let things go.

It burdens no one but myself.

While if I dared speak such things to actual human beings,

I would be a burden. I would be a distraction from their life.

I would feel guilty.

And if I kept these thoughts so closed up in my head,

I would go insane.

Not literally, just pop-culture connotation of crazy.

But I would not feel good about that, either.

The internet is a savior.

While also being the worst thing to ever happen.

97.

97 times I've come to vent.

I can promise many of those venting sessions included

Stupid, stupid things about stupid, stupid guy.

I can promise many sound ridiculously teenage,

So angst-filled it's disgusting.

And I apologize from the depths of my heart.

But what can I do?

I've got to just let it all go somewhere, at some point.

And here.

Here's where things get said.

Get heard?

I'm not so sure about the hearing part.

I don't really care.

So long as I can type what needs to be typed.

97.

I hate that number.

You know that by now,

If you've stuck with this post,

Until this point.

To anyone who actually cares to put up with my bullshit,

I salute you, and thank you whole-heartedly.

But what's made you stay?

What makes you read?

AKA- Constructive criticism. Lay it on me, folks.

I mentioned how ridiculously stupid I feel because of that one guy, right?

(You're probably grumbling 'only a million times already, geewhiz!')

Have I exhausted your will to tolerate stupid rantings about stupid love things?

If I have, I'm sorry. I'm surprised you held out this long.

If you haven't, wow. Do you feed off of teenage angst? Or something like that?

Because I seriously don't know how someone could stand it.

But.

I've probably mentioned him 97 times.

(more like 97,000.)

And I'm mentioning him now,

(What a surprise)

It seems like I can only talk to him without being overcome by fear

When I'm talking about literary-ish, smart-ish things. Poetry.

When I'm in my element,

I actually make sense, sound coherent, and am not left quaking in my boots after every encounter.

Heh, quaking in my boots.

I don't wear boots,

So I have nothing to quake in.

I think I've exhausted this 98th blog post.

Congrats on making it this far.

Adieu.