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Novelistic thoughts; or where big words attempt to impress.

Although it probably just seems really silly, I think I have a fear of dying alone.   

That's it.  I don't want to die alone.         

Another thing is that I surround myself with too many thoughts like these when I am alone.  I can't let them take over my mind, so I have to find someone to take them away from me.  Yet, it seems like when they leave me, they return them as if they are a morbid memento of what once was, as a parting gift, and when I open up the box that holds them, I find out that they have multiplied.

~A small sliver of my novel, still a mere collection of words yet to be completed.

-Ranger.

I treat my friends like mismatched tile cleaner bottles.

This was originally written on an iPod touch in the middle of the night, so that should tell you a bit about the state of mind that I was in when writing this.

As of the time of, well, writing this, I'm about 1/3 of the way into The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
A great book, or at least, it is so far.
I've been told that it is sad, which I don't doubt it is, because it has had some sad moments that seem to...draw me in...that make me feel like I can relate and sympathize.
The way the family gathering was described reminded me of my own family gathering experiences, albeit with less alcohol and abusive remarks. I'm talking about the way Charlie felt awkward in that situation, mostly.

As a preface to this part of the post, I would like to start out by saying that I am one of those people that would love to be OCD and organized but at the same time has no idea about how to go about that whatsoever. As Adrian Monk would say: "It's a gift...and a curse." And as I would add, "a hellishly annoying one at that."

I think what I am getting at is that I also apply this to people probably more than I should.
I don't like this at all.
I find myself wanting to categorize friends, often unfairly, sometimes paring down on my contact with people I would like to, deep down, talk with all the more.
And then, at the same time, I find myself forcing my presence onto my friends that I might not even want to talk with all that much, or even be around, for that matter because I simply want to achieve this perverse sense of symmetry.

I can't think of any good ways to describe it. Are there benefits? It doesn't help me keep or make friends.

I guess it's something for me to think over, and maybe you guys can...see if you do this.

-Ranger

Extruding prose like icing from a frozen pastry.

I often wonder how normal it is to stress over each paragraph written.
I am a perfectionist, and if I don't become happy with something I have created, I either destroy it or never do anything with it.
This is sort of relavent to me at the moment because I am going to be 15 very, very soon.
And I sort of had a pseudo-conversation with a friend about this, but for some reason I can't help but feel like I am going through some humorous existential crisis.
As selfish as it sounds, I can't help but regret not doing something...notable until now.
Does anyone else share similar feelings?

So today I have been sick.

this once was a post

now it is not