8 posts tagged “randomness”

I want pretty things to hang around my neck and to wear on my feet. Cause people annoy me. And life is exhausting. Graduation is close and things are starting to break apart.

I'm not made for real life friendships, really. Not those everyday-school-and-afterwards-girl-shit.
None that require constant occupation. I feel like a bad person for all the things people do for me without getting anything in return - when i really shouldn't.Of course it's sweet to see rock 'n' roll bands in towns. It's nice to have somebody whos house i can go to after work. It's nice to have somebody i can ponder around school if i feel the need to.

But the whole getting to know her?
Not happening. It didn't with the last girl who i wanted to be my "best friend" , i doesn't with the one right now.

The reason? I do not care.

I don't care where she's from, what her childhood friends are called, if her mum is crazy, if her sister is driving her nuts, i don't like hearing stories about her past or what is happening in her life right now. I just do not care at all.
It's a weird thing and i wish i was better than this, i wish i could listen to all these tellings and enjoy it truthfully and honest - truth is, i'm not.

I've realized this by now.
I wish i could be a best friend for everybody who wants me to. I wish i could be Chris' heroin he asked me to be,  i wish i had the guts to tell Janine that she's missing out, that her relationship is going somewhere wrong, I wish i had the balls to be a good best friend for the person who considers a best friend at this stage in my life.
But I'm not. I'm not her best friend - that's another girl she's know for years. And that's just fine for me. It's reality. Just like the person who's been her best friend is hers, Franzi is mine. That's the way it is. It's like with my (step-)dad not accepting that i am not his natural child. And that it's just fine like this, that it doesn't make a difference but that it is reality.
Thing is, ever since i've stepped into this girls life again she has started talking some shit about her old best friend to me. I never respond to that. I always tell her that she should talk to that person about it - cause it's not my business. It's their shit.
She just relies on me cause i'm the easier option right now and as much as i can understand that i still think it's wrong. I still think it's not right. I still believe that i'm somehow wrong in the picture.

I can only be what i am.

I'm the kid you call up if you wanna go rent movies with greasy hair or mosh in the club or get wasted  and fucked. I'm the person you spend time with if there's stuff to do.
I'm not somebody to talk your life through with.. I've heard childhood stories. I've heard puberty stories. I've spend my teenage time in houses of others. It's cool. I'm through with it.

It's the reason i've turned down Stefan.

I'm tired of everybodies stories.

I'll listen to you if you've got an issue. I'll help you trough. That's what i do for the people around me. I would never not. I'll get you a lovely birthday if nobody else does. I'll send you parcles for Valentines if i know that's what you need. I'll tell your sister off if i know you can't bear it any longer. I'll pick you up in Stuttgart cause you're on coke and without money. I'll do your math homework with you calling the math geeks because you've got a presentation the next day.

- And i wouldn't have it any other way.

But i've realized that i'm not made for phone calls. I'm not made for listening to stories about first drunk times. Not if they're just random convos. If they mean nothing - if they're just to get to know you better.

I never tell stories about my past either.I've never really recognized that i purposely don't do this. But in my life nobody knows my story.
When i've told a girl in my maths class about me living on the street a year she couldn't believe it - even though it was only mentioned as a side note to explain a certain belief i have on a certain topic. Nobody knows about my past friends. The stories happened to me. I never talk about them - i think that is because whatever they have made me become i stand for. Me, that is what those stories are. Everything that happend to me is me right now summed up. I am the deep down meaning of those stories about past loves and happenings.

It's a stupid thing to do. It's worse probably than being a loner and just hating the world. Cause i'm letting everybody in - but i'm keeping them out at the same as far as can be.
I'm not made for bff shit. I'll go shopping with you if you wanna go shopping. Or if you need new clothes. But i won't be at ease. I won't enjoy hearing what you like about this shirt or that jeans. Simply because i do not care.

I care about the people new in my life. But i don't care about their stories. They've got best friends who know the stories. There's no need for me to know them too. If you want to talk about how you felt that night, where it has taken you, when you broke, who made you realize things. Go ahead. Tell me. Tell me the meaning of your stories. That's what i care about - the meaning. Not the bullshit around it.
I'll get a picture of you that is not true - not you.
I'll get a version of you filled with stories, not meanings. To me, that's an empty picture. It means nothing and even more so it tends to annoy me.

Why are people always having to tell their stories? Why aren't they coming down to what they mean?
Back then when you had your first beer or your first breakdown, the first bad mark in school, the first kiss, did you care about the way things happend or do you remember what it meant to you?

I think stories should be told. Tell them to everybody, but tell them because they mean something, not just because they happend.

Life's shit, it really is. Things feel like un-stickable. As in 'not really sticking together'. I'm trying and stuff.
Yet, it's all feeling weirdly balanced. In a way i never knew of. Apparently as of lately my brain decided to make it bothersome to change my sweater. The thought is in my head.
It's clearly saying 'Get the sweater off. It's too hot' in my head. The order is there. It's a demand even. With the little "!!11!!1" 's even. It's there.
Yet, my body won't listen. It's like the little kid in my group at the kindergarden i work at. He's smart and all. But he just doesn't get things. You tell him to pick something up and you can tell he heard you. You can tell he got what you meant. He's seing the 'My first story about ducks' book, or the bright red wooden train with the disgusting biting marks in it revealing how many kids must have sucked and bitten on it before. He's seing it. Yet, no reaction.
He's slow, that's pretty much it.Disabled aswell, but not in a rough way. Just too slow. After the 6th time you tell him he gets it. The brain has finally found a working transmitter docking onto whichever transmitter docking thing it has to dock on and he grabs the piece in front of him and puts it away.
I really do admire that kid. He's my fave of all. He reacts on you in a very gentle way. Telling you to fuck off results in a  heyyyy...' with a very slow movement of hand and a drool over his navy blue sweater.
However, being a 19 year old girl with the transmitter-docking-abilities of a 4 year old slow-kid seems a bit odd. Even to myself. And then i'm sat there inside my bed, with all those blankets stuffed around me, the heater on 5 blasting whatever out of it's white clean shape and my brain is telling me to

'FUCKING TAKE THE SWEATER OFF YOU GONNA DIE OF HEAT IF YOU DON'T'

& i know that i have to and i know how to and i understand the need. But nothing's happening.
Can you tell i'm a bit fucked? Cause i certainly feel like it.

hehe I just found this on youtube.com It's my history teacher. How ridiculous is it that i can find my history class on youtube? And what does this say about his class please?
Anyway, was a regular history class, full boringness and all of a sudden he jumps up singing the french national anthem.Crazy much?I believe so... actually, later on he jumped upon one of the tables if i remember things correctly.People are just odd.

I really should just drop out of school.It's nuts.Even my teachers are.hell.
In the beginning the little black drop on the right is meee and on the left is my dear friend Eva.Aren't we the cake.

I need it.I'm so so desperate for it.It's just perfect.It's so 'me' ( i never said that. ) It's all leopard patterned.It's so spiff.And beautiful.
Today, after donating blood ( yes, i officialy booked my tickets to heaven.It was a megabus bargain but a ticket is a ticket. ) i went H&M shopping (bless our city owning four overall ) and wouldn't spend 7 bucks on this lurrrvely leopar belt, neither would i allow myself to spend 5 bucks on beautiful beautiful leopard gloves BUT i'd totally spend 70 bucks on a cheesy cheesy lurrrvely handbag with an electrocuted cat on it.

Oh yes would i!

What makes us girls such pussies when it comes to certain things?Seriously though, i'm the most male person you'll ever see when it comes to shoes and make up and all that girly shitjack but then you gimme a pin-striped handbag or a leopard patterned toothbrush-holder ( not even the brush itself, just the holder.If there is such thing, really ) and i get INSANE.
I hyperventilate, i pass out, i start crying, yell at random people to 'TAKE THEIR FUCKING HANDS OFF IT CAUSE IT'S MINE MINE MIIIIINE' even if they just looked at things.It's a whole Backstreet Boys reunion concert cenario.People get hurt, children get killed, soldiers crippled.
It's an  entire rush, afterwars i feel like i had 6 bottles of clear vodka ( on ice, thanks ) , two ginger ale and probably six packages of beer ie i don't remember shit and i feel awful as hell for spending a hundred quid on a leopard patterned toilet paper.
But fret not, until the stage of awfulness hits in the world is mine, the karma is blanced out, Vietnam is free ( finally, the US couldn't do it.I certainly can.By buying pin-striped socks.) , all the kids in africa have pizza with sausages and extra cheese now and I finally own the piece that has left to complete my life.

Why is that tough?Why is a Lily Allen Vinyl Copy B-side thing making me orgasm or why am i getting the chills when i realize that i finally got that OHMYGOSHSOCUTE hello kitty chainholder on ebay?Or why am i becoming a fully loaded twat arsehole jerk about NEEDING ABSOLUTELY EVERYBODY TO SHUT THE FUCK UP when Gilmore Girls is on air?

It's a bit scary to be honest.A slightly bit too much at times, it seems.But then again, honestly, in a world where blokes intend on wearing Pink as a shirt color and borrowing my sparkly eyeliner ( i'm not talking about the fag who does my hair, i'm talking about the bloke who is supposedly enjoying my tits and shagging girls.Preferably the girl attached to the said tits. ) and trying to squeeze into jeans that perhaps ruin his chance to end up getting kids one day.
It's just not right and whenever i see one of those 20 year old boys with their girly hairdo and their gloves ( GLOVES NOW!COME ON! ) with their petite shirts and their waxed legs showing underneath their new mini skirts something inside me yells at me to GO BE A GIRL.
Cause honestly, i am and that's what girls are supposed to do..Unintentionally i am not psyched over shoes and the like cause overall i'm just not very girly and for some reason i feel like not a lot of girls are these days anymore.So i try to find my girly corners.My hide-aways from all those butch girls in their trainers and their messy, greasy hair ( one of them sits in myself, actually and comes out once in a while.Together with the fat little 7yr old boy inside me who demands chocolate all fucking day.What can ya do?Fat kids need to be fed ) and all those girly-boys who intentionally ( unlike me.ha! ) blurr the lines between girls and boys.

I mean c'mon not event he drag queens do that.
Even they seperate the boys and the girls inside them.Dress on = girl, Suit on = boy.
I'm not saying experimenting isn't a good thing and hey,  Marlene Dietrich with her short short hair squeezed into her suit was fabulous in the 30ies but guys, give me a goddamn break!
I'm trying to wax my legs and somehow all i think is ' why bother, it's enough if ONE of us has smooth legs'