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2:58 a.m. - 2006-07-13
Emo moment
So it has been brought to my attention just how boring I am. I use too large of words, I speak too fast, I go off on tangents constantly, I tell the same stories repeatedly, and even when the stories are different the topics are recurrent. I know, without being told, that I mumble. I was under some false assumption that just perhaps I may have found someone to listen to me and my ramblings. I was apparently wrong. This person is interested in me for some reason. She doesn't want to date guys that are "idiots", but I'm "too smart for" her. She wants me to tone it down.

I can't tone it down. I've talked to myself my whole life because no one else wants to hear what I have to say. I don't have to edit what I say to myself, I don't have to slow down, I don't have to enunciate clearly (I don't even have to be speaking out loud), and I constantly repeat myself because I can't seem to clear out my working memory.

In the psychology class I am currently taking, we are discussing personality theorists. Many of the theories I've held for years have actually already been written about and tested by these founders of psychology. I read the text when suddenly it hits me, I didn't use the same terminolgy, but I had this same idea.

What did I do tonight after leaving this person's house? I went to my aunt's place to pick up some food. My cousin is staying over at my house so she basically packed a picnic basket full of food for us. She wasn't home so I decided to take a nap in the back of my red hearse until she came home. While I was napping, I received a phone call from this person who further hammered home just how boring I am.* That's when I was told to tone it down in conversation. It seems that with people I either ramble on, or I just sit there and listen to them. When I ramble I at least feel like someone is listening to me for once. When I just listen to a person, I feel like I'm just pretending to be a therapist. This is just one of the reasons I want to become a psychologist. I want to get paid to listen to people ramble because I've been doing it for free all these years. After our conversation, I saw that my aunt was still not home. So I headed toward home. I really needed a hug. I turned into Lakemore to see if my friend Jodi was home. I figured she has known me long enough and well enough to listen to me vent, offer me some advice about my situation, and to give me a hug. She wasn't home yet, so I called Rachel. She answered her phone, but she wasn't home. She told me she'd call me back in a few minutes, but I still haven't received that call. No surprise there. Next I called an old army buddy of mine's ex-wife, Chrissy who is living in Texas. After a long conversation with her, Jodi called to say that she was home. I hung out with her watching Deadwood and petting the stray cat that adopted them. It looks just like James Cage's cat, Gish. She said if there's some way to prove that the cat is his, he can have it back. How does one prove that one black cat is different from another? This one looks so much like Gish, but I don't know of any distinguishing features. I'll have to ask James later today. Myaunt called me to tell me she was home. I had her just leave some food outside for me to pick up. I left Jodi's, saw the house in Lakemore on Lakeside that is jacked into the air so that they can build another floor underneath, and back tracked to my aunt's to pick up food. I drove home with my mind still turning over conversations from today, had Bryant put away the groceries, and still haven't said a word to either Bryant or Buster since I've been home. It's 3 a.m. so I'm going to bed now. I have class in a few hours.

*I am fairly certain that my gravitation toward things that I would later learn fell into the category known as gothic came from my rejection by my classmates in school due to my innate lack of social competence. I didn't see the same movies they did, I didn't have cable to watch the same shows they did, I wasn't really allowed to go out anywhere, and so I had no common ground with most of them. Even with my classmates in honors classes, I had no common ground. Their parents were moderately wealthy; my mom was on welfare or working some minimum wage job. They had two parents; I was the bastard son of a single mother. They studied their asses off to get good grades; school work was too easy for me. I got bored of it and didn't bother to do my homework. My slide from the honors program came in eighth grade when my algebra teacher took me into the hallway the first week of class to say to me, "there aren't many students I hate, but you are one of them." They wouldn't put me in the other algebra class with a different teacher. They wanted to put me in the pre algebra class with the same teacher who hated me. So my grades were great except for algebra. I took it too personally. How else was I supposed to take it when a teacher tells me that she hates me?

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