I want to be stalked. I want notes from a secret admirer and someone in sunglasses that I see everywhere I go. It would be really flattering, to be stalked.
Just imagine, walking down the street with your best friend. She glances behind you a few times, getting a little nervous. She says 'I think there's somebody following us.' You laugh.
'It's just my stalker,' you say. 'He's not a problem.'
Your friend looks at you, part weirded out, part admiring. 'You have a stalker? Lucky bitch.'

Maybe not everyone has such a strange best friendship. I do. But she's leaving me. All of my chick friends, every last one of them, is going away for a month this summer, travelling Europe without me. My best guy friend is going on a cruise to Italy. My next best guy friend is going to his cabin all summer.
I'm working all summer. I have an interview at a florist's shop tomorrow. I'm slightly looking forward to it.
I also have one written exam and one oral exam tomorrow. I have this terrible feeling that I'm going to fail them both.

I'm itching for something exciting to happen. I'm kind of lonely and bored out of my skull. I can name all the Muses, and the Fates, and the Furies, and I know every single word to 'Are You Gonna Be My Girl', I've been to the east coast of Canada, I can touch my toes and do handstands, but not cartwheels. I'm 5'10" and my mother's siamese fighting fish is dying and I don't know how to tell her. My mother loves that fish.
I have a guppy named Murgatroyd and I grow sunflowers from seeds in a pot at the end of my driveway. I swear that my little brother is trying to kill them.
My best friend thinks that my new haircut makes me look like a guy. I don't tell her that her haircut makes her look fat, because I am a good friend.
What's wrong with looking like a guy anyways?

Sometimes I think I'm crazy. That one day, I'll completely lose control and start breaking shit and screaming at strangers. Other times, I think that that's the only logical reaction to living in a world where we are slaves to what we create.
Right here, right now, I am a slave of this laptop as I write on this blog that no one will ever read.

I want to write a novel some day, a rant just like this one, about nothing in particular, a rant that is 50 000 words long. I could do that.
I'm writing a novel anyways, but I'm only 10% finished. I have 13 goals for this summer, and one of them is finishing it.

The goals are kind of a long story. It stems back to my almost getting kicked out of my high school, which I never told my friends about. There was this long discussion with my mother, in which I explained that I really didn't see the point in living on this planet. Really, we're just feeding the machine. And I don't necessarily mean the corporate machine, like that anarchist yuppy bullshit. I mean the machine as in our consumerism. Like in Louis Untermeyer's 'Portrait of a Machine'. That poem just shocked me. I was shaken to pieces by fourteen lines, a simple sonnet that foresaw the future.
I'm getting off topic. My mother, after this discussion, decided that I needed to be more grateful. I decided that I need reasons. My mother used to be a therapy addict, so she now says I have to find reasons to be thankful every night when going to sleep. I don't actually, but I tell her that I do. Usually, when I'm going to sleep, I have a song going through my head, but that song and the singer are an untouched subject.
My mother also thought that I needed goals. In my flexible arrangement of the English language, in my head 'goals' could also be 'reasons', and I thought that I needed reasons. So now, I have thirteen goals, most of them concrete, a couple abstract, only one that I don't think I'll do, and I'm not sure why, because it won't actually be very difficult at all.

I used to love going dancing at this place near my house, Seylynn Hall. But I went there last night, for the first time since the last time that I went with the aforementioned Singer of the Song. I was there, and I was trying to have a good time, singing along and dancing to Vancouverite punk rock, but all I could think of was the last time I was there, the singer dragging me into the dancing, throwing his long limbs around and laughing for the joy of the motion.
I think he stole my dancing.

I'm tired and worried and sunburnt and sad and just a little bit lonely. No one else is here. I can't wait to move out, so it won't feel like other people should be in the same place as me but aren't.
I can't believe that the future is almost upon us.