Blog Secret

Sometimes I wear shimmery caramel flavored lip gloss to bed, in part because I ran out of chapstick a few months ago, in part because you never know when a boy might want to kiss you in the middle of the night.

I don't like one of the girls in my major and she admitted in a personal essay that she stole, and was banned, from the Dollar Store. I absolutely use it as further justification not to like her.

I plan outfits around my glasses.

Part of the reason I love acting is because I've always wanted to be someone I'm not.

It worries me that I'm becoming complacent about my inattractiveness to men. I'm concerned that I'm going to marry the first "metro-sexual" guy who takes two looks in my direction, only to find out ten years down the road that I was a last-ditch attempt to like girls and that I'm a convenient cover-up--and will I mind it, or pretend not to know?

...though it would be an entirely different story altogether if I already knew. I don't have to explain or justify myself, I'm only saying.

My friend Ashley wears men's cologne because perfume gives her headaches. I tried it once but found myself sniffing my own wrist uncontrollably because it smelled so very much like boy.

I never feel more fat and bloated than I do when I'm actually losing weight.

I feel like my great-grandmother Minnie and I would have been good friends, had she not been my great-grandmother, and had we been the same age. I wonder if she knows me and watches me, and if she feels the same way about me. I hope she does.

I can't decide if The Secret is a complete sham or not. Does that mean I basically question the concept of faith?

I dress on purpose. Now that I know I can pull off "that style," I do it partially because I know I can. Sometimes it would just be easier to go back to wearing jeans and boxy t-shirts, though.

I want to publish a book of essays someday but I think probably no one will read them.

It really, really, really, really, REALLY annoys me when really annoying people with even more annoying blogs have more hits on their counter or get more comments than I do.

I think that if I wrote for a living, I'd run out of things to say because I'd just be squirreled away at home all day, trying to write 9-5.

I'm afraid my future children won't be cute and that I'll resent them for it.

I wonder if my perception of my talent is unfounded and if I'm actually one of Those Girls who no one will tell is actually untalented.

I'm jealous of people who write better than I do, especially when English is their second language.

I haven't read a piece of fiction on my own accord in more than a year.

I'm grateful that I have a sense of humor about life. I think some people equate my tendency to be self-effacing with cynicism, and maybe it's a coping mechanism or something, but my ability to avoid taking things too seriously (when appropriate) actually makes me appreciate life better. Typically, I'd just rather laugh than cry.

There are those in my life whom I've tried to make myself fall in love with because it just makes sense, you know? I have found love doesn't work that way.

I actually almost cried when I found out the costume that fits me perfectly was going to be altered.

I don't like being sick, but I don't mind receiving sympathy when I'm sick.

Sometimes I write blogs or update my facebook status to act as bait, hoping certain people will comment. Sometimes it works.