The chronicles of Me

Introduction, that in no way introduces you.

"Anything. You're a good writer," the uniform black letters read. A song two clicks too loud blessed my ears, and the familiar twilight of my room surrounded me. I found a new text in the top of my phone that read,"Is it really?"little Esme typed. I assured my young friend that it was absolutely okay to not want a purpose, I'd been at those crossroads myself, once before. To find yourself not wanting a purpose during the four years you're SUPPOSED to find your purpose amuses me. It tickles my chest and attacks my laugh-box until I can't help but crack a smile.  The day hadn't been long, nor difficult, yet I still found a familiar roughness around my eyes, as though they'd been open for far longer than they wished so.
I couldn't help but feel tired. To feel tired was to feel normal; to feel rested was a gift sent from the heavens. The beauty of my lack of rest is that I chose to feel miserable. I chose to stay up hours past my bedtime, I loved to struggle with sleep, I loved to get comfortable and let the meek yet persistent tiredness envelop my arms and legs and face until I was happily drowning in bliss. Just when the very last inch of skin was succumbing to this sleep I tugged back. I furrowed my brow and smiled as I snapped awake, just to prove to this sleep that I still remained master. I held the reigns, and what I said goes.
Simple rituals like these occur frequently in my life. Little shit like never skipping a Rick Astley song no matter my mood or state of mind. Scowling every time I saw my ex-girlfriends face to make her think I really hated her. All will be revealed, remember that. It was simpler for her to think I hated her. When we locked eyes, and she was holding a hand that didn't belong to me, she saw only a mask of annoyance. I count my blessings, and I'd be a son of a bitch if I said my stony expression wasn't one of them. People love to hide things they aren't supposed to have in places where they know they won't be found. Like the pack of cigarettes in my top left drawer hidden inside my phone's original box that I'll know I'll never smoke. Hidden in a more clever fashion is the absolute heart shattering sadness that trails my every move, hidden under a solemn glare you'd see and instantly feel shivers shoot up your spine.
I absolutely love school. I love having a goal and being taught how to reach it and find prowess in the numerous crash courses. My laziness absolutely kills any opportunity of success in these courses and I'm insurmountably and everlastingly angry at that.
I'm not stupid. I know I'm not stupid. However, I see these forties and sixties and can't help but feel stupid. I listen, I understand, and I'm a proficient test taker. All these things I know to be true, yet at the end of the six weeks I see horrible grades that pepper my report card.
My thoughts are incoherent, I'm gonna jump from chapter to chapter. I hope dearly in the end, you'll be able to piece it all together.
And with this, I end my introduction.
Ironic.