standing on my own two feet (tip toes on a ledge)

Breaking Benjamin ‘You Fight Me’

I’m like Carrie huh? No, I only wish I was. Who wants to be lonely and frustrated and fucked up? No one.

Then again I don’t want to fold jeans and tee shirts anymore, I don’t want to read verbatim disclaimers and push people through a CT machine and tell them to hold still. I don’t want to help people. I want money, I want security, and I want to wear scrubs. Hell, they look comfortable, and moreso because I always use two dryer sheets instead of one.

This must be why men say women just don’t want to be happy. Maybe it’s true, maybe I don’t want to be happy or even content. Maybe I want to feel confused and fucked up, lonely, unable to channel my energy into productive, useful material. It’s why New York has it’s draw. No one knows your name.

Furiously writing plans, trashing them, redoing them over and over, I regret this move. I look around at everything that’s mine, and realize how scary and wonderful it is all at the same time. On one hand, there’s no one to catch me if I fall and all these bills just keep coming back in a vicious cycle, of course. On the other hand, there’s something to be said for buying things for yourself. It’s my life, and in this empty apartment the quiet never bothers me. The echoes follow me and it’s comforting knowing whenever I need it, I’m right here for me. Even if I hate it, at least I feel something and I don’t forget how.