As the Blogosphere tells me, the last time I made a post to this ten-dollar website was 186 days ago. One-hundred-and-eighty-six days, just over half a year. Six months, maybe. So much the difference. Where was I? Where am I? I was in Shippensburg, and I loved it there for my duration, but now I'm beating the path of my mother and jumping dinghy when things get stinky. I'm in San Diego, CA, now where happy happens and I flick a light and swing my hips to its motto. I'm still looking for happiness, despite dragging myself down everyday. Still do, yeah. Working on it.
     Because I don't believe anyone reads this and I don't know why I do this to myself and maybe this is some kind of reaching out or just the side-effects of watching Six Feet Under for a straight month, but I've been thinking of that ever elusive death ever so lately. I kind of want it, but I don't see where it will bring any satisfaction for me. Satisfaction. I've been hearing that a lot lately, and I can't get no. Dun na na na.
     I'm trying to be happy. No. Really. Check my pulse. Could I be lying? Isn't that the goal, self-actualization? I don't know where I am most times and I'm actually afraid. I'm nervous, I'm paranoid. I was comfortable in PA, being a moron in front of what would be friends, but now I'm somewhere where people could care, but I don't trust them to. It's awfully backwards for me. I know PA People do not care, at least the ones I was in cahoots with. CA People could care, but I'm just not allowing myself to see it. I'm stuck in a rut of allowing myself to feel and interpret all the criticism placed on me and I feel guilty for it. I feel guilty for even mentioning it. It's even surreal to be posting it. And I'm doubting anyone's remotely interesting in reading it. In reading me. I don't feel like a physical being anymore. I feel more like a fabled fly on the wall. Why am I staring at you, Boyo? Because I'm observing. I'm in awe. And I don't feel like I'm really there. You're a movie and you're unbelievable. Why can't I make decisions? Because it's not my right. I don't think I even chose to come here. I was drawn here. I mean, where else was I to go?
     A year ago, I felt reborn. I felt like a person, a little freer, and, hey, I felt a little more attached to reality then. Things were looking up. And suddenly I'm down again. I put myself here, I know. I mean, I'm in California. That should make me happy. Why am I so damn ungrateful? Why am I so incapable of being happy?
     I'm working on it. I'm working on it. I really want to be working on it, but I don't feel like there's anyone there to back me up. Maybe I'm not seeing compliments, or remembering them. I have a mental block. I feel like my mind is at war with me. Okay, I understand why they don't love me. I really do not love myself, it's alway wreaking havoc on the real me (I don't know that one for sure yet), and I shouldn't demand people to love the unlovable. I'm really unlovable. I'm really unmemorable.
     My friend of five years and who I lived with for one can't remember how to spell my name.
     My mother thinks I have blue eyes, when I have green.
     The dangerous, me-on-the-brink issue... Well, I can't talk about it. I just want it so bad. I really want it so bad.
     I want to know what's in my way. I want to know how to kill that side of me who is always kamikazin' my good parts, who drives those little filthy missiles of self-loathing when I'm only trying to have a good time here, as long as I'm here. I don't want to do the thing that will kill that nasty part, but it'd be so much easier than putting up with the thoughts, the same thoughts that I've been having for thirteen years. I'm nineteen, for god's sake.