Sunday, June 13, 2010


My thumb is sore from letter writing, so I am giving it a break before I go onto my next letter. Apparently I am full of words or thoughts, and I can't seem to compact them enough for a poem, or control them enough for a story, so I am just writing to people, hoping my thoughts are mildly well-recieved or at least entertaining. I've been riding a wave of full confidence lately, but the start of summer seemed to be a re-start to insecurities (though I like them, as long as they don't frighten me to the point of hermitude.) I try to keep myself in check. I still lack a trust, a trust that people like me, and that if they didn't I would have enough sense to know that. I think of myself as pretty OK at reading people, but I don't trust that this applies to reading how people feel in regards to me. This is a most people thing, not any one person in particular. Some days I am confident that I am likeable, but most days I am second guessing. People think it is selfish and passive-aggressive and needy to want people to tell you they like you. I am not desperate for it, and I wouldn't ask anyone point blank, and I wouldn't even hint at trying to make them say something along those lines. But in my head, it only makes sense to tell people you like them, or really how you feel about them in general. People do tend to think it is strange though, so sometimes I have trouble doing so myself. Though a few glasses of wine usually helps, and leads me to lots of arms drooping over shoulders and me saying "I love you guys, you guys are great" which is really true. Oh jeez, I keep worrying about making a fool of myself, but if any of it really is me making a fool of myself then I suppose that is just what I am, a genuine silly sort of gal. I'll take it for what its worth. So worrying be damned, I have to get rid of it before my real summer starts or I will trapped inside my hot attic room all summer quivering in a pool of my own sweat. I think my thumb has had its rest, if you're "lucky" you might be getting a sloppy savannah letter in your mailbox in the near future.

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